


Behind Every Great Fortune

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Big jobs need big crews.</p><p>A <i>Leverage</i> fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Every Great Fortune

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 Hockey RPF Big Bang. Huge thanks to the mods for organizing and moderating everything, which I imagine to be somewhat like trying to steer toddlers through a store filled with candy and distracting shiny things.
> 
> marissa did an awesome fanmix for this, [which you can find here](https://8tracks.com/chordates/behind-every-great-fortune). It was wonderful to work with her, so please take some time to check out what she's put together.
> 
> Disclaimer: My knowledge of art is completely cobbled together from the internet, my fading memories of the single art history class I took in school and Sotheby's website, without which I would likely not be considering a career in professional art theft. I don't claim to be an expert, and obviously there were some liberties taken with certain aspects of the story in the name of artistic license. Ditto any and all information provided about security systems, especially the ones at the Warhol Gallery or Carnegie Museum of Art. 
> 
> I really would not/could not have written this without the constant input, encouragement and handholding of the incomparable cinderlily. Liz, you are my shining star and magnificent in every way. Equally amazing are Holly and Naomi - thank you both for your thoughts and input. 
> 
> And, of course, I can't express my thanks enough to my awesome beta reader, Zeixx.

Martha didn’t understand what she was reading, at first.

She liked to think she was financially savvy in her own way, but Richard—God rest his soul—had been the one to take care of financial matters while they’d been married. Right through to the end, he’d wanted to make sure she was provided for, especially once he’d gotten the diagnosis from his doctors. Regardless, when the insurance company dithered over his policy, she’d assumed that the arrangements she’d made with the bank had taken care of things.

Which made the letter completely nonsensical.

She called the bank immediately. They’d been customers with the bank since it had opened, though it had only been a few years ago. And sometimes the fees seemed a bit high, of course, but she’d never once complained. (The bank surely had their reasons for charging so much). But they were loyal clients. 

Surely they could sort it out.

She was transferred six times before she finally reached someone who seemed willing to speak with her.

“But, the lady I spoke to, she said that it would be better if I didn’t pay. She said,” Martha took a moment to sort through the pile of miscellaneous papers she’d allowed to pile up beside her phone. “Here it is. She said if I didn’t pay, I’d qualify for TARP? And that there’d be a way to adjust the payments on the house?”

“We don’t have any record of you calling us.”

Martha’s blood ran cold, and acid reflux began creeping up her chest—a squeezing pain like she hadn’t felt since her last pregnancy. “I have her name written down here somewhere.”

“Ma’am—”

“No, no. I’m sure it’s here. It’s… Cathy. With a ‘C.’ She told me that I shouldn’t pay for three months—”

“I’m sorry if that’s how you _interpreted_ her advice, but I assure you that we would never advise any of our clients to neglect their mortgage payments.”

Martha’s breath caught, and it was suddenly impossible to draw another. She managed to stammer out weakly, “Please, if you’d just ask Cathy—”

“There’s no one working here by that name anymore.” The man’s voice suddenly grew cold. “At the end of the day, ma’am, it’s your responsibility to make sure your mortgage is paid. You’ve failed to do that. Foreclosure proceedings have been initiated and you should expect to hear from your local sheriff shortly.”

Martha dropped the phone, the pain in her chest tightening like a vice around her left elbow. She didn’t… she didn’t…

She barely managed to stab the Life Alert button on her phone before she felt her knees give way.

* * *

The kid was pretty good, Flower would give him that.

He wove easily through the crowd, touching shoulders and excusing himself with friendly nudges, even as his hands dipped into pockets and nimble fingers slid watches and bracelets off unsuspecting wrists. He’d managed to get his hands on a copy of the waitstaffs’ uniform, though even from a distance Flower could see the stains and everyday wear from its history with whatever pawn shop or thrift store in which he’d found it. If anyone cared to look, they’d have noticed how his serving tray had been empty the entire time he’d been on the floor.

He worked the room over like a natural—but an untrained natural. Any second now, someone was going to notice the same flaws in his performance.

Of course, when they did, that someone just happened to be museum security.

Flower leaned over to whisper in Vero’s ear. “I think duty calls.”

She rolled her eyes, but waved him off and took another sip of the perfectly unremarkable pinot grigio they’d insisted on fobbing off as top shelf. Flower leaned in and kissed her temple, and began making his way across the room.

Security was on the kid before Flower could get there, and a couple of roughs who looked like ex-military dragged him off the floor, deaf to his protests. Flower found them in a back hallway, their hands already deep in the kid’s pockets as they pulled out the wallets, watches and miscellaneous jewellery he’d liberated from their rightful owners.

“Gentlemen,” Flower said, adjusting his voice just enough to command their attention. When all three sets of eyes were on him, he pulled the leather folder out of his pocket and produced his shield. “Special Agent Fleury, FBI. I’ve had half an eye on this little shit all night.”

One of the guards looked immediately at ease. The other… well. It wouldn’t be the first time Flower had someone respond negatively to the ID, especially when combined with his accent.

“What’s the FBI doing here?” the cynic demanded, his jaw already set in preparation to argue whatever response Flower might offer.

Flower glanced over his shoulder, eyes raking across the crowd until he found Vero, happily chatting with whatever socialite had caught her attention. Returning his attention to security, he stepped closer. The kid’s eyes traced his movements closely, a healthy amount of deferential fear creeping into his gaze.

“This doesn’t go beyond us,” he said, lowering his voice. “We received a tip that _A Couple in Love_ is potentially being eyed by a prolific and daring international criminal criminal. Since it’s part of a private collection, we were asked to monitor any suspicious activity that might indicate the tip was correct.”

“We weren’t notified.”

“I’m sorry to say that eighty-five percent of art theft is at least in part aided and abetted by inside sources,” Flower said. He tilted his chin towards the kid. “The fact you two pulled him aside speaks in your favour.” He brought the full weight of his attention around. “And you? Casing the place and decided to take advantage of a roomful of easy marks?”

“No, I—”

“Kid, it is definitely in your best interest to shut the fuck up until I have you in an interrogation room,” Flower snapped, waving his hand. The kid’s mouth clicked audibly shut. “I’ll take him out to my car. If one of you could please inform my partner she can join me when she’s finished with her interviews.” He gestured over his shoulder towards Vero, who he knew was probably cutting them all but a sliver of her attention.

“Right,” the cynic muttered. “Sure thing.”

“Thank you.” Flower grabbed the kid’s arm. “We’ll make sure your detail is debriefed tomorrow morning.” He nodded brusquely and headed for the door, his grip tightening on the kid’s bicep when he offered a token struggle.

“I swear to god, I don’t know anything about any painting.”

“Shut up,” Flower said, nodding to another pair of security guards on his way out to the parking lot.

The kid thankfully listened this time, right up until he was shoved into the back of Flower’s sedan. He dropped himself into the driver’s seat and turned around to get a better look at the would-be pickpocket. Youngish, with the sort of wholesome California beach boy look that’d probably done him a lot of favours as he’d broken into the business.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The kid, distracted by the number of toys and the car seat on the other side of the bench, started when Flower repeated himself. “Umm. Rick. Rick James.”

Flower levelled his best glare and the kid cracked like an under-boiled Easter egg. “Beau.”

“Right. Six out of ten, performance-wise. You’ve got soft hands, but you need to work on figuring out when you’ve been made.”

Beau’s forehead wrinkled. “Umm. Who are you?”

Flower smirked. “I’m the one who’s going to be stealing the van Gogh tonight.”

 

_Marc-Andre Fleury  
Thief_

* * *

Jameson liked to think he could hold his drink fairly well, but halfway through their second bottle of inconsequential vodka he was beginning to feel the edges of his vision grey out.

The brunette across the table from them didn’t even blind as she took another shot. It went down smooth—he couldn’t help but stare at the line of her throat as she tossed her head back—and he stared as she settled the shot glass back on the table in line with the others that sat between them.

The details were a bit fuzzy; he and Craig had set up in the back corner of the bar a few hours ago, waiting for their fence to show up so they could offload the contents of the velvet bag currently burning a hole in Jameson’s pocket. He could remember the statuesque brunette walking through the door. Of course he could remember that. The way she’d moved in the tight black dress and red heels had been like the silky glide of satin on marble. Christ. He didn’t know women like her actually existed, let alone frequented the shit holes he and Craig usually ended up in.

At some point, she’d seated herself at their table with a bottle of vodka.

One bottle had become two.

And Craig was starting to look a bit antsy—Jameson suddenly realized their fence was about an hour late—but Jameson couldn’t help but reach out for another shot. His hand bumped up against the glass, knocking it hard enough to splash a quarter of the contents onto the already-sticky wood. He focused and managed to pick up the glass. He sputtered a bit when he downed it. They were all long past the point where they noticed even a tingle in their throats, but the room seemed to be tilting at dangerous angles all of a sudden.

“The way I see it,” the brunette said, finally, “is that this goes one of two ways: my way or the hard way.” Funny, he never got her name. He turned to Craig to see if he thought it was as funny as Jameson did, but Craig was glaring across the table at her. Jameson didn’t know why he was suddenly so angry… a few of their boys were hovering around the pool table in the corner, just in case.

Jameson blinked and refocused his attention on her. “What’s the hard way?” he asked, unable to help himself. His brother lashed out beside him, fist connecting with Jameson’s arm hard enough that he could already feel the bruise. “I wanna know!”

“Well,” the brunette replied. “The hard way is me knocking your brother out with this bottle—” She gestured to the mostly-empty vodka bottle on the table between them, “—Gut-punching you and pushing you over to throw up on the floor while I beat up your buddies over there with their own pool cues, and then taking the necklace while you try not to choke on your own vomit.”

At the word ‘vomit’ Jameson could feel his gorge rising, and he forced it back down. “What’s the easy way?”

“You hand over the damn bag and I leave you with your esophageal integrity and a nasty hangover.”

Before Jameson could respond, Craig was jumping to his feet and shouting.

A few minutes later, as Jameson was trying desperately not to violently eject the contents of his stomach, the brunette returned to his side. She knelt down next to him, and he craned his neck to try and get a clear look up her dress.

The brunette shifted her knees and rolled her eyes at him before efficiently frisking him and removing the bag from his pocket.

“Thanks,” she said, easing back to her feet. Behind her, Jameson caught the barest glimpse of his buddies scattered across the floor before another wave of nausea rolled over him. “Later.”

The brunette headed for the door.

She was still wearing heels.

 

_Hilary Knight  
Hitter_

* * *

Alex wasn’t nervous. Of course he wasn’t nervous. It wasn’t like this was one of the most important jobs of his career or anything. He tongued the gap between his front teeth, attention fixed on the security camera as he waited for the small red power light on it to die.

Despite himself, his fingers crept time and time again to his ear, brushing against the small piece Zhenya had provided him earlier that evening.

“The fuck is taking so long?” he finally asked.

Zhenya huffed on the other side of the open channel. “Sorry, I got distracted trying to beat my high score on Bebbled.” Alex’s squawk of outrage was cut off by the sudden flickering of the camera light. “Ten seconds. Go.” 

He bolted down the corridor to the next set of doors, barely managing to slide into the one blind spot he’d located earlier that week during his first walk-through. Down the hall, the light blinked back on.

“Would you stop fucking around?” Alex growled.

Zhenya snorted. “I’m deactivating the door alarm now.” The sound of furious typing followed fast on Zhenya’s words, and Alex tried not to let his muscles bunch up with the tension thrumming through his veins. “All right, Sasha. Three minutes on my mark. Three. Two. Go.”

Alex opened the door, bracing himself for the inevitable screech of the alarm system. When the hallway remained silent, he grinned and started with a brisk pace towards the double doors at the end.

“Are the rest of the cameras down, Zhenya?” he asked.

“When security reviews the footage, they’ll find a very interesting clip of Metallurg kicking Dynamo’s ass.”

“Fucker,” Alex muttered. He reached the doors and glared at the pin pad. “Code?”

There was silence for a moment, then a quickly recited string of numbers Alex had to scramble to enter correctly. The door popped open and Alex grinned.

“Two minutes,” Zhenya said. “I’ve got the laser grid temporarily deactivated.”

“What would I do without you?” Alex asked.

“Rot in prison,” Zhenya replied. “Hurry the fuck up.”

Alex stepped through the door and made his way across the room. He ignored the smaller items: jewellery and antiquities. Worth a lot of money, of course, but ultimately not what he was here for. When he reached the pedestal housing the Rothschild egg, he had to resist the urge to rub his hands together.

“Pressure sensor is deactivated.”

Alex sighed in relief and gently lifted the glass case up and away.

There was a moment of crackling pixelation in the air and the egg disappeared, leaving a pocket-sized projector behind. Alex’s jaw dropped as his eyes landed on a small soapstone statuette sitting beside it.

An otter.

_A fucking otter._

“God fucking dammit,” Alex whispered.

“What?” Zhenya demanded. “Alex? What?”

“Masha beat us here,” Alex snapped angrily.

There was a short silence that bordered on uncomfortable. And then, “I guess the break up is permanent.”

“Fuck,” Alex muttered. “Did you help her? You had to have helped her.”

“I wouldn’t ever say that to her face if I were you.” Alex groaned and Zhenya continued, “I’ll help you nick a diamond if you like. Masha’s already gotten most of the good ones, but I’m sure that you and I can knock over a Tiffany’s or something.”

In the distance, the alarm began to blare.

“Don’t get arrested,” Zhenya said, his tone not in the least bit sympathetic. “Masha will never stop talking about it if she breaks your heart, beats you to a score, and gets your ass sent to jail.” 

Alex’s eyes darted around the room for just a second before he sprinted for the nearest window.

 

Evgeni Malkin  
 ~~Computer Networking~~  
 ~~System Analyst~~  
 ~~Security Exp—~~  
Hacker

* * *

The gentleman from the agency—private, and utterly trustworthy in their discretion—waited patiently as Milton counted out his money. He finished with the last stack of hundreds and offered his most sincere smile; never let it be said that Milton Lesar couldn’t conduct himself with grace. Of course, it made sense for the transaction to be completed in cash… He couldn’t fathom the embarrassment that might come from having the sale traced by the press.

His phone rang, and he almost lost count of the last hundred thousand dollars—they’d wanted it in pounds sterling, but no one could say that he was an idiot; he’d negotiated it back to dollars. It had meant laying off even more of the minimum wage fuckwits he had working in his stores, but it hardly mattered. Not when he was about to own his own goddamn castle.

“Do you need to get that?” Mr. Hill asked demurely.

“Probably just my lawyer again trying to tell me this is a terrible idea,” Milton replied. “Fuck him. Everyone who can should own their own castle, am I right?”

“Indeed, sir.” That’s what Milton liked about Mr. Hill—he was pliable. Pliable and agreeable, like every high-paid suit Milton had ever met.

Lesar handed over the suitcase and tried not to shift too impatiently as Mr. Hill drew out the deed and title. He wasn’t expecting keys—in what universe would keys even exist, in this instance?—but when the heavy pieces of vellum were placed in his hands, he felt the weight of the transaction all the same.

“Of course, Her Majesty would appreciate your discretion,” Mr. Hill said with a solemn nod. “The economy has been just as hard on her and her family as it has on her subjects, and it wouldn’t do for her to lose face in such a way.”

“I can undertstand that,” Milton said. Not that he had any intention of keeping the sale private; the details, maybe, but he fully intended to make sure the castle was recorded in his list of holdings as quickly as possible.

“Duly noted. The family will be doing a last walk-through tomorrow morning to collect a few remaining valuables—”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Mr. Hill blinked in surprise. “The estate was sold to me furnished, which means everything in there is now my property. If her Majesty wants to renegotiate for the contents, she can contact my lawyer.”

Mr. Hill looked utterly flummoxed, but finally nodded. “Of course, Mr. Lesar. It’s your decision.” He stood, unsurprisingly not offering his hand. The English… Such poor losers. “All the best in your new home.”

Milton grinned as Hill showed himself out.

His phone rang again.

 

_Sidney Crosby  
Grifter_

* * *

Within seconds of walking out of the office building, Sid ditched the fake moustache—he’d always looked terrible with facial hair—the glasses and the suit jacket. He stripped off the dress shirt he’d worn and dropped it in a garbage can he passed without a second look, leaving him in black pants and a simple crew neck t-shirt.

Before he could get more than a block and a half, a sleek black Maserati screeched up to the curb and came to a stop in front of him.

He paused, eyes flitting from the car to the nearby back alley. If he ran, he might be able to avoid the driver, presuming they didn’t try to run him down.

The window rolled down. As it turned out, running wasn’t necessary.

“Did you just sell an American Buckingham Palace?” Wickenhesier asked.

Sid’s eyebrow ticked up. “Of course not. Buckingham Palace is state-owned.” He coughed, embarrassed, and dropped the fake accent he’d been toting like a counterfeit Rolex. At Wicks’ look, Sid shrugged. “I sold him Balmoral.” She laughed. It was good to hear. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah. What was it, Vancouver? 2010?”

“Sochi,” Sid corrected. “Last year.” 

Wicks grinned. “Right. Sochi.” At least it looked like there weren’t any hard feelings. She craned her neck to peer behind him, and Sid looked over his shoulder. About half a block back, Milton Lesar had just charged out of his office and was looking wildly around the street.

He did a double take when he spotted Sid.

“Need a ride?” Wicks asked.

“Apparently.” He calmly walked around the car and slipped into the passenger’s seat. He waited until she’d pulled out into traffic to ask, “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“What else? A job. A big one.”

Sid grinned. “I’m all ears.”

* * *

There was really only one place to go in Pittsburgh when you were trying to plan a heist and avoid suspicion at the same time. It also happened to have one of the premiere collections of scotch in the state. Wicks’ glass sat beside her elbow, mostly untouched. Jagged Edge, as far as bars went, was comfortable, but not distractingly so. The clientele seemed to swell and wane with the mood of the bartender, and the booths lining the walls gave a quiet sort of privacy that only really came when you could hide in the crowd around you.

Hockey highlights played on the TV behind the bar, but Sid tried not to allow himself to get too distracted by them. He was sticking to water. For now, at least. Water until he had more details about the job. 

“What kind of man is our employer?” 

“The type who’s arrogant enough to use his secretary to hire criminals,” Wicks replied. That wasn’t really the sort of man Wicks usually accepted jobs from. When he said as much, Wicks’ fingers twitched towards her scotch. “I have my reasons.”

Good enough for Sid. “Who do you have so far?” 

Wicks raised her hand to begin ticking off her fingers. “You, Knight, Flower, some kid Flower’s decided to adopt, and then I was thinking Letang for the computer work.”

“Tanger’s gone straight,” Sid told her.

Wicks finally reached for her scotch and tossed the entire thing back. Sid winced on behalf of whoever had taken the time to brew it twenty years ago. It deserved so much better. “Fuck.”

“He married his parole officer.” Sid rolled a quarter down his knuckles.

“Fuck,” Wicks repeated. “What about Malkin?”

Sid’s mouth went dry. He flipped the coin over and palmed it, a nervous tic Mario had called him on a million times. “You don’t get much better than Malkin.”

Wicks’ eyes immediately narrowed. They’d known each other long enough that whatever had crept into his tone must’ve been painfully obvious. “Are you two okay to work together?”

“We’re professionals.” He absolutely did not think about the last time he and Geno were in a room together. Not about the Mondrian or the bruises Sid had found on his hips the next morning. ”But you’ll have to get him away from Ovehckin’s crew.”

“Didn’t you hear? Ovechkin’s running long cons with Greene and Laich in England right now.” Sid blinked. “Actually, I think they’ve taken a few pages out of your book. Last time I checked, they were in the middle of selling off the royal holdings.”

“Ovechkin,” Sid muttered, inexplicably irritated. Wicks smirked. It was absolutely not an attractive look for her. He tried to coach his face back to something resembling neutrality. “Well, bully for them. In that case, it shouldn’t be hard to get Geno on board.”

“Right. I’ll give him a call tonight.”

Sid smiled thinly and reached for Wicks’ bottle.

He was only three drinks in when he called it an evening, and wished Wicks a goodnight with a kiss to the cheek, putting down enough money to pay for their joint bar tab. He was pretty sure Flower was still in Colorado—he’d been talking about hitting up some sort of charity event that had woefully underprepared security—and he needed someone to talk to.

Obligingly Flower answered on the first ring, “Be honest, are you still using a flip phone?”

“Fuck you,” Sid replied by rote, magnanimously ignoring Flower’s cackle of delight. “What’s this I hear about you adopting some kid?” He'd seen him literally a month ago. How did Flower get into these things?

“He’s a ray of sunshine,” Flower replied, “And every good thief should have someone to carry on their legacy.” The ‘as you well know’ was loud across the line, despite Flower not putting it to words. “Besides, he’s put up with me abusing him for two weeks, now. That means I have to keep him.” 

“Right. You’re bringing him along?”

“Of course. No better way to train up than to be thrown right onto the job.” Flower paused, and the noise in the background slowly faded. “I’ll be there in two days. Want to let me know what was so urgent it couldn’t wait until then?”

“She’s bringing Geno on,” Sid said, at length. He traced his way through his apartment, staring at his feet and not at the art decorating the walls. The Mondrian wasn’t there, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he wouldn’t notice its absence. 

“Ah.” There was a lot packed into one single syllable. “I wish Tanger and Max hadn’t retired. I feel like I could net a lot of money on betting whether or not this ends with the two of you engaged.”

“Fuck off, Flower,” Sid muttered. Despite everything, it made him feel a bit better. 

After all, Flower didn’t place bets he couldn’t win.

* * *

Beau had liked Denver. It was cold compared to Cali, and Beau missed the seaside with a longing bordering on pathetic. The traffic was shit, but not as awful as it had been in LA, and the entire place was controlled by a conglomerate of Stepford Wives and hippies, but they’d all worn expensive shit that, when liberated for the greater good, had brought in more than enough to pay for his bullshit rent. And the guy he'd split rooming costs with was solid, for all he'd eat pretty much anything in the fridge regardless of smell, consistency or expiry date. Borts wouldn’t really miss him all that much after the first irk of annoyance once he realized the fridge was empty. And his landlord had bought his fake ID and didn’t care that Beau’s comings and goings resembled that of a stray cat with a regular meal ticket. But Denver had never really been _home_. It’d been a place to run to, when he’d needed to run, but he hadn’t bothered setting down anything resembling roots. That didn’t mean he’d wanted to leave. And he certainly hadn't been anticipating being abducted by some fake FBI agent who seemed to think Beau was some sort of precious Regency heroine in need of saving. Beau was not Fanny Price.

Then again, he’d learned more in the week since Flower had snatched him from the fundraiser than he had in the two years leading up to it, so maybe it wasn’t all that bad. Beau had never intended to be a career criminal. Picking pockets was a way to keep himself warm and fed and keep Netflix from cutting him off. The lure of bigger scores had drawn him into Flower’s web, which was probably exactly what he intended. He’d only had to guess at what Flower had gotten for the fenced van Gogh before agreeing to follow Flower to whatever wretched hive of scum and villainy was pulling him towards the East coast.

He slept most of the car ride, though in self-defense of Flower's taste in music; Beau was pretty sure this was the kind of awful Europop that had prompted the mass exodus to Plymouth Rock. Flower nudged his shoulder somewhere between Cleveland and Youngstown to see if he needed to piss, but Beau shrugged him off with a half-whine and turned his face back against the window.

He blinked his eyes open past the stickiness of sleep just in time to see the road sign pass by on the right.

"Pittsburgh?!" he demanded. "Your hotbed of criminal activity is fucking _Pittsburgh_?"

"What were you expecting?" Flower asked.

"I don't know. New York, maybe?" He’d honestly sort of been hoping for New York. For all he was pretty sure he could learn a lot under Flower, he wasn’t stupid; eventually Flower was going to get sick of having him underfoot and he’d be left to fend for himself. And when that happened, he’s sort of been hoping to see _Phantom_. To make Bailey jealous. Obviously. 

"You can't throw away a fucking cigarette butt out the window without hitting someone claiming to be a professional in New York, Sunshine. You need to stick to places where you won't knock elbows with six other assholes trying to pull the same job."

"But you said every good art thief works in Paris a few times in their life, and Paris is worse than New York."

Flower cast him a disappointed side-eye. " _Respirer Paris, cela conserve l'âme_."

"The fuck does that mean?" Beau asked.

Flower winced, deeply pained. "It means I despair of you and your entire generation."

He took a series of complicated turns, back and forth over a couple of bridges until it felt like he'd gotten them completely turned around. Finally, he slowed to a crawl in front of a sports bar that looked about ten days from having the lease revoked. They probably had blue lights in the bathroom to stop people from finding their veins.

“You’re the worst,” Beau muttered.

Flower winked and cut off a minivan as he pulled across two lanes into a free parking spot. He grabbed the canvas shopping bag sitting lonely in the backseat and gestured for Beau to follow as he slid out of the car with more grace than his aging sedan merited.

Beau followed. It probably made him an idiot, but he followed, bracing himself the entire walk from the car to the front door. When he stepped inside, though, it felt a bit like coming home. The interior smelled like fresh-rolled tobacco and wood soaked with beer; homey in a way he could only associate with bars well-loved by the people who lived nearby. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the dimly-lit surroundings, and by the time he did Flower was halfway to a large booth in the far back corner.

Flower threw out his arms. “Wicksy!” 

The woman who stood to greet him was probably close to twenty years Beau’s senior, with cheekbones that could’ve been used to anchor a ship at dock; the left was bisected by a deep, deep scar. It made her more intimidating than the soft set of her mouth suggested of her. Not that he’d say that to her face; she reminded him enough of his mother in such a way that her disappointment could be crippling. She was perfectly average in a way that made Beau wonder if it wasn’t a front… especially since Flower seemed so excited to see her.

“Don’t call me that,” she replied calmly when Flower closed in to envelop her in a tight hug, his lips pulling into a disappointed moue when he withdrew his hand from her back pocket and came away with nothing more than a cocktail napkin with the words ‘fuck off’ messily scrawled across it. Was stealing as means of greeting a thing? She had a department store watch on her wrist that Beau could probably slip off easily enough. 

“I’m hurt,” Flower said, balling the napkin up and throwing it at Beau’s. “Wicks, this is Beau, my klepto-baby.”

“Nice to meet you,” Wicks said. She offered her hand, and raised unimpressed eyebrows as he shook it while trying to slip her watch off her wrist. “Really.”

“Sorry, I’m still housetraining him,” Flower said. He pulled Beau into a headlock and ruffled his hair. Beau flailed pro forma. As it turned out, hanging from windowsills from his fingertips had made Flower supernaturally strong. “No stealing from teammates, kid. That’s epic-tier level shit.”

Beau could feel himself flush. “Sorry.” 

“You can make it up to her by getting us some drinks. Wicks’ll have the best scotch they have, neat, and I’ll take the worst scotch they have, with soda.”

Beau sucked it up. He’d even pay for the drinks. Wicks was supposed to be the lead on this job, and he couldn’t afford to fuck it up any further.

There was a lone man behind the bar, who looked at Beau with the sort of neutral expectation that came with bartending for many, many years.

“Hey. I guess I’ll have whatever she’s drinking and then whatever scotch comes in the cheapest bottle with soda.” Beau gestured to the table behind him.

“Coming right away.” And of course the bartender was from Eastern Europe. Why the fuck not. “You are with Wicks, yes? Please tell her that Knight called and said the asset is in place. She’ll be here soon.”

“Right.” He watched as the man pulled a mostly-full bottle of scotch out from behind the car and carefully measured it into a waiting glass. The next drink he sloshed in a generous amount and chased it with a hit from the soda gun.

“Twenty-eight dollars,” he said.

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you kidding me?” 

“You wanted what she was drinking,” the bartender shrugged. Beau reluctantly pulled out his wallet and sighed. The man eyed them; not like he was trying to decide if the bills Beau handed over were fake. More like he was just considering whether or not shoveling out his apparently magical fucking scotch had been worth a two dollar tip. “I’m George. Call if you need me.” 

“Right.” Beau practically fucking cradled Wicks’ glass on the way back to the table. 

He arrived just in time to hear Flower ask after Sid.

“Picking up Malkin from the airport,” Wicks replied evenly. She accepted her drink from Beau and set it down next to her elbow.

Flower’s lips twisted up into a grin. “And Knight?”

“Running an errand for me.” 

Beau took the seat next to Flower. “George says Knight called. The asset is in place and she’s on her way back.”

“George?” Flower repeated.

“The bartender,” Beau said. 

“Right.” Flower downed half of his drink. “Sid and Malkin will be a while.” He grabbed the bottom of the shopping bag he’d left in the centre of the table and upended it, scattering his collection of locks on the table between them. The stopwatch and the notebook fell out a second later, as though grinding sand into the wound.

“Not the locks again,” Beau said. He hadn’t meant for his voice to come across quite so whiny, but nevertheless… He was getting pretty fucking sick of the locks.

“The locks again,” Flower confirmed cheerfully. He grabbed up the notebook and flipped it open about halfway, thumbing through a couple extra pages until he found what he was looking for. The front and back of each page was filled with slowly decreasing times. The last ones were in the five minute range. “I want you down to a buck thirty.” 

Beau sighed in exasperation and pulled a small cloth wallet out of his pocket. The tools were still glossy with newness. Flower had promised that picking locks would open some sort of new world for him, but he was still trying to get over the utter bullshit of picking a seven-pin lock in under five minutes.

Beau picked one of the padlocks—nicer quality, though not one of the high-end ones by any means—and went to work. He could feel Wicks’ attention on him as he fumbled with the tools. He wasn’t used to anyone except Flower watching him, and even Flower only really kept half an eye on him while he was practicing. 

“My best time for the cheap ones is somewhere around seven minutes,” Wicks told him. 

“What do you do?” Beau asked. His hand inched for the stopwatch and Flower batted it away. Apparently they were having this conversation while he was on the clock.

“Planning,” Wicks said.

“To put it mildly,” Flower said into his drink. “Wicks organizes, plans and gets the right people on board for a job. She talks to the client, too. Most of us aren’t really good at… Let’s call it customer service. And she rounds up the talent.”

“That’s me. HR director of the most ungrateful bunch of assholes in the world,” Wicks muttered.

“But at least you know who you’re working with,” Flower said. “There’s always a chance, if you hook up with someone new, that they’ll fuck you over or sell you out. It’s important to know who’s going into the job with you. If you don’t…” Flower drew a slash across his neck with his pointer finger. 

“You’re not really selling me on staying here instead of catching the next bus back to Denver,” Beau told him honestly.

“That’s why I said you have to know your crew. I’ve worked with everyone on the team except for Knight, and she’s worked twice with Sid and once with Malkin.” Flower glanced at Wicks. “And as I hear it she lived on Wicks’ couch between the ages of fifteen and twenty.”

Wicks inclined her head. “Still less time than Sid spent on Mario’s.”

“Is that what you have planned for me?” Beau asked.

Flower slung an arm across his shoulders. “Sunshine, you don’t even know.” He moved to ruffle Beau’s hair and Beau ducked out of the way. “Now get back to work.”

* * *

Sid considered holding up a sign; something pithy and clever like ‘Turing’ or ‘Mitnick’ but eventually decided that the downsides—drawing attention, looking awkward, being unable to keep at least one hand in his pocket—outweighed the potential humour of the situation. He also wasn’t convinced that he’d forgiven Geno completely for fucking off to Russia without so much as a backwards glance, so perhaps trying to be cute while waiting in arrivals at Pittsburgh International wasn’t the best strategy. 

Air France Flight 1153—St. Petersburgh by way of Paris—arrived twenty minutes early, and Sid tried to occupy his hands by pulling up the museum’s website on his phone and reading over the information about the different exhibits. He retained exactly zero intel, and by the time he felt eyes on him, he’d lost all hope of remembering even the basics of the English language.

He looked up casually, just in case he’d caught the attention of a security guard; his face wasn’t well known in any law enforcement circles, but you could never be sure when a stray snippet of security footage might ruin your career. But, sure enough, it was Geno. He’d managed to make it through customs un-harassed, his laptop case slung over his shoulder like a shield, and had stopped just outside the doors to the international baggage claim, regarding Sid with something that Sid might’ve called shock on anyone else. Had Wicks even told him Sid was on the job?

When Sid met his eyes, Geno tilted his head and started towards a nearby bathroom. For a moment, Sid considered not following. Anyone else he’d have picked up would have just made their way over, clapped his hand in a handshake—except Flower, who would’ve done some sort of mortifying PDA before bullying Sid into handing over the car keys—and allowed him to lead them to the car. Following Geno into a restroom—a _public_ restroom, Jesus Christ—was a terrible idea.

Sid wasn’t going to do it. Geno could just drag his ass over here and the two of them would conduct themselves like adults and not the emotionally-stunted children Flower always claimed made the best career criminals. 

He followed. 

Dammit.

There were a few travel-weary men crowding the areas around the sinks when he got in, but a sign advising that the bathroom was being cleaned and thanking patrons for their patience had been propped up beside the door to prevent anyone else from entering. Geno had taken up room at the furthest sink to wash his hands and splash some water on his face. No one gave him a second glance; Sid had never considered his face unremarkable—not ever—but he could see how it was easy to overlook him when his head was down and his focus elsewhere. 

One by one, the other men filtered out until it was just the two of them. Geno finally straightened and looked Sid’s way. Dark circles sat heavy under his red-rimmed eyes; twelve hours in the air and who knew how many in transit would do that to you. But when he smiled—a slow, creeping stretch of his lips that generously crossed his face until all Sid could think about was Christmas morning—Sid’s cheeks pinched with the effort to avoid returning it.

“Long time,” Geno finally said. Sid couldn’t figure out what his tone meant. Was it regretful? Sad? Relieved? Sid was really only good at deciphering people’s motivations when they were marks. But his smile stayed, and Sid supposed that was the best clue he was going to get.

“Eighteen months,” Sid said. Should he have been vaguer? A year? A year and a half? About two years? A while? 

Whatever. Geno’s smile widened anyway. “May.” The corners of his mouth twisted into something impossibly impish for a man over six feet tall. “Belgium.”

“Luxembourg,” Sid corrected. Geno shrugged, as though it didn’t matter. “You left.”

“Let you keep painting,” Geno pointed out, his smile fading.

“You _left_ ,” Sid repeated.

It took Geno a long while to reply. “Sasha took break up very hard, and he is not so good in jail.” Sid could see that, but it didn’t explain anything. Geno sighed. “Sasha is very good at small jobs, but bad at big picture. Needs… няня. Babysitter. Otherwise he goes to jail. I know Sid is all right. Smart enough to stay out. I trust you be here when I come back.”

“That’s…” Sid paused. Because, sure, Sid took some risks after Geno had taken off, but he hadn’t done anything that could’ve landed him in jail. Then again: Ovechkin. Alex wasn’t really known for his impulse control. It was part of why Sid had stopped working with him. Geno tilted his head to meet Sid’s eyes.

“You would not let Flower go to jail,” Geno pointed out.

“No. I guess I wouldn’t,” Sid agreed. “Unless he really pissed me off. And even then, I’d break him out. Eventually.”

“I break Sasha out. 2012. Copenhagen,” Geno sighed against Sid’s mouth. “Sasha still owes me.”

“Fine,” Sid gritted out. “But you couldn’t have left a note?” 

“Left the painting,” Geno repeated. “Thought that said everything.” Maybe it did. “You still have it?” 

It was on the tip of Sid’s tongue to tell Geno that no, he sold it. He fenced it. He burned it. Mondrian wasn’t even his favourite De Stijl painter, it wasn’t like it would’ve been a huge loss. Well, for him, anyway. The art world got a little squirrely when priceless artwork got fucked up. 

“It’s in Mario’s attic,” Sid finally settled on, his voice the epitome of professional neutrality. 

Except then Geno’s fading smile returned full force, and Sid belatedly remembered telling him about the years _he_ spent in Mario’s attic, and how the entire Lemieux family still joked that the space was his, and half his stuff was still stored there for when he was between cons and needed some place to crash. How he’d described it as home. 

Sid was good at figuring out when a con was blown. All the same, he didn’t run when Geno settled his hands on Sid’s hips, his thumbs slipping up under Sid’s shirt to stroke the sensitive skin above his waist. His hands were warm. 

“I’m still mad at you,” Sid stated, embarrassingly breathless. 

“I make it up to you,” Geno said. It sounded like a promise. 

Sid licked his lips, thoughts of what that could mean sparking through his mind, and Geno watched intently. With intent. He glanced regretfully at the entrance to the bathroom, his thumbs stroking back and forth across Sid’s skin until Sid shivered with each pass, quickly moving towards overstimulation. 

Geno pressed his thumbs in and Sid gasped. 

“Later,” Sid choked out, grabbing Geno’s hands and pulling them away. Geno smiled and nodded, stepping back. Sid almost pulled him in again, but the sound of voices outside the restroom brought things into sharp perspective. “Later.”

“Hmm.” Geno headed back across the bathroom to collect his laptop and carry on bag. “Have to get luggage.” 

“Yeah.” Sid moved to the sink to wash his hands under the coldest water he could stand. Geno passed by behind him and trailed his fingers across the small of Sid’s back. “God, you’re such a dick.”

Geno smirked at him over Sid’s shoulder, catching Sid’s eyes in the mirror. There was a promise there, too. Sid wanted to unwrap them all, press through the layers of Geno’s gaze and figure out what each promise meant. 

Later.

“I’m going to make you sit in the back on the way to the bar,” Sid warned. 

“Yes, yes,” Geno said, waving a hand. The normalcy of it broke through the heavy feeling in the air; at least a little. Sid began to feel like it was safe to breathe again. “Wicks tell you about job?” 

“Some of it,” Sid said. “They’re waiting for us. Come on.”

* * *

The embarrassment of his failed lift still fresh in his mind, Beau met the rest of the team as demurely as he could manage—which, fuck Flower, he was totally filled to the fucking brim with sincere fucking modesty—and waited patiently for Wicks to give them the rundown on what the job entailed.

His eyes circled again and again back to Knight; he hadn’t really been expecting their hitter to be so… awesomely hot. His mental image of hitters involved a lot more disfiguring scars and broken bones; Knight didn’t look like she spent her time kicking ass in a professional capacity. Then again, with those arms? She could probably make him cry like a child who’d just dropped their ice cream, so he wasn’t going to press the issue.

“Does everyone who wants a drink have one?” Wicks asked. There was a murmur of assent and she nodded. “All right. Thanks for coming. Here’s the deal: we’re being hired by a very, very rich man to help make him even richer.” She pulled up a photograph of an aging man, a life of excess obvious in the folds of his jowls and spidery red veins. “This is William Carter III. Former CEO of Intrabank. Just before the bailouts happened, he provided a large number of paintings from his private collection to the Carnegie Museum of Art. Since they’re strictly speaking on loan to a public museum, they couldn’t be seized by the State. He wants them all back.”

Beau frowned. “Why not just ask?” 

“Because the second they return to private hands, they can be taken to help pay back what he owes the government,” Wicks said. “What he wants is for us to steal the paintings and fence them on his behalf.”

“Tidy,” Flower said.

“It gets better. The paintings are all insured. If they were to go missing, not only would he get a nice settlement, but it would also open the museum to legal proceedings. He could walk away with a _lot_ of money.”

“And we get ten percent?”

“Only from the proceeds of the initial theft. We don’t get a dime of the insurance settlement, for obvious reasons,” Wicks said.

“Why ten percent?” Beau whispered to Flower sidelong.

“Standard going rate,” Flower replied absently, “This sounds easy, Wicks. What’s with the big crew?”

“There are ten paintings he wants back.”

Flower snorted out an ugly laugh. “Ten.” Wicks didn’t laugh. “ _Ten?!_ “

“Ten.”

Flower blew out a breath. “Well. I guess we have our work cut out for us.”

“Fortunately, none of Carter’s pieces are particularly famous, and hopefully he’ll understand that fencing a piece gets you less than a professional estimate. We don’t have a deadline, so we can take all the time we need to plan this out. No mistakes, guys. I know a lot of you live out of Pittsburgh during the year, and I don’t want anyone to feel like they have to give up their home because of sloppy work.

“Sid, I want you in the Carnegie. Get me eyes on the back rooms, the security, any details that aren’t available to the public.” Sid nodded. “Geno, your usual bag—once we figure out the security system, I want us in and out without triggering any alarms or getting the police riled up. Flower, obviously you and Beau know what you’re here for. And I’m keeping Knight in the wings in case someone needs to be dealt with. Any questions?” 

“I’m going to have Beau shadow some of you assholes, just fair warning,” Flower said. 

“What about the Moneypenny?” Knight asked.

“Keeping it separate for now. Just in case.” Knight nodded sagely. “I’ll be running point. I’d like daily check-ins with any status updates. We’ll be using Jagged Edge as a meeting place and I need everyone here every other night unless prior arrangements are made.”

“Wicks is one of the all time hardasses when it comes to pre-planning,” Flower said, leaning back in his chair and shooting Wicks a shit-eating grin when she levelled an annoyed look his way.

“Mario was worse,” Sid replied. He gestured to Geno, and Geno handed over his laptop without comment. “Come on, kid. If you’re shadowing, I’m starting now.” 

He left the others behind at the table and headed for the bar, Beau following close on his heels. Sid picked out a stool at the far corner of the bar, and waved George over to order a cheap scotch—just as bad as the crap Flower had been guzzling since they walked in the door. He didn’t drink it immediately, just left it sitting next to his elbow as he opened Geno’s laptop and googled the Carnegie’s website. He clicked through a few links until finding the page for educators.

“The trick is to make them want to help you,” Sid said. He flipped open—seriously?—flipped open his phone and called the number on the page. “Oh, thank god, I was really afraid I was going to get a machine. Absolutely. They’re the worst! I think I once sat on hold with my cable company for an hour and got a machine at the end of it and I could just… Comcast? No, I’m from Canada. Yeah, actually I’m a master’s student at the University of Ottawa. Funny you should mention it, it’s why I’m calling. I’m working on my thesis and I would really love the chance to come down and spend some time at the Museum, but I don’t know if there’s an official process or…” Sid’s phone was actually big enough to cradle next to his ear, and he began typing out information on Geno’s laptop. “Okay. My supervising professor. And who should he be in contact—Dr. Pattison? Perfect. Thanks so much. Yeah, hopefully I’ll get to meet you soon.”

He hung up and returned his attention to the laptop to pull up the University of Ottawa’s website. He obviously wasn’t super comfortable with the internet—then again, he used a flip phone, so the internet might be a couple of years ahead of him—but he managed to find the page he was looking for.

“When people want to help you, they’re more likely to provide information they’d consider innocuous. Then it’s just about putting it all together.” 

“So, what are you doing?”

“I’m getting myself an in at the Carnegie.” He placed another call. “Good afternoon.” Any trace of a Canadian accent was gone, leaving bland non-regional diction in its place. “I’m hoping you can help me, I’m in a real pickle. I started working for Dr. Pattison over here at the Carnegie .” He laughed with surprising sincerity. “Yeah, she’s brilliant. I believe it. Anyway, I made a complete bonehead move. I thought it would be a time saver to reorganize the mess her last PA left behind and I totally misplaced a few of her contacts. Would you mind if I got some names from you? Oh, thank you. You’re a gem. I’m going to owe you so big.”

“It’s like watching magic happen,” Flower said, his voice only a little snide. Beau was actually pretty sure he meant it.

“Who would we contact if we were interested in having someone flown up to spend some time there? In the Fine Arts stream, of course. Professor Orr. That sounds familiar. And would he be the one to call if you were planning on sending someone here? And this is going to sound completely ignorant, but do we have any students currently on site? No? Oh, that’s too bad. You Canadians are so wonderfully polite.”

Back at their table, Knight rolled her eyes and gave him an air jerk. Sid flipped her off without losing the flow of the conversation. 

“I think that was everything I had. Thanks again, you’ve been so helpful.”

After he hung up, he reached for the scotch. Sid shot it back, gargling it for a moment until his cheeks were bright red. He coughed and spat it back into the glass. He huffed out a few hard breaths and grabbed his phone again, glancing back and forth from Geno’s screen to the keypad—seriously, a goddamn keypad. 

“Hello,” And, wow, did his voice sound different, “I was hoping to speak with Ms. Pattison? Of course. It’s Professor Orr from the University of Ottawa. No, I don’t mind at all.” There were a few moments of tinny hold music audible even through Sid’s pathetic phone. “Yes, Ms. Pattison, thank you so much for taking my call. I was hoping you could help me. One of my grad students is looking to do a study on Andrey Avinoff, and I understand you have one of the foremost collections in North America. I was hoping I could impose upon your time a bit and have him work out of your offices for a couple of weeks as he prepares his thesis.

“Oh, that’s fantastic. Yes. His name is Sidney Messier. His flight gets in around two tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the opportunity. And, please, if you’re ever in Ottawa, let me treat you to dinner. Yes. Always. Thanks again.”

When he hung up this time, he closed Geno’s laptop and turned a self-satisfied look Beau’s way. “Now I’ll have full access to the back rooms as well. That one was risky—you never know if the people you’re impersonating know the people you’re talking to—but the way people interact on the phone tends to be pretty bland, so you’re usually safe.”

“That was actually sort of beautiful,” Beau said. 

Sid nodded. “I know.” He looked back to the table and for a second he caught Geno’s eye. He looked away first. “I’ve got to go and get my cover ready. Hang out, if you want.” He pushed Geno’s laptop back Beau’s way. “Take this to Geno, would you? I’ll catch up with the rest of you later.” 

He waved to the others and headed towards the exit. For an abortive moment, it looked like Geno was going to follow, but Flower clapped a hand down on his shoulder and kept him still until Sid disappeared out the door.

Behind the counter, George was taking inventory, though he set down his clipboard when he noticed Beau sitting alone. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“Uhh, a pint of whatever’s good, I guess.” 

George pressed his lips together in a small smile. “All my draught is good.” He grabbed up a glass to fill a pint glass and favoured Beau with a pleased look. “You know, I hear you talking. I know some tricks myself.”

Beau couldn’t help it—his eyebrow rose skeptically. “Right.”

“Yes. Picked up some things.” George reached under the bar and pulled out a deck of cards. “I show you?”

“Sure. Why not?”

George pulled out the deck and sorted through the cards until he found a queen and a couple of twos. He showed Beau the cards. “See? You try to find the queen.” He placed the three cards down on the countertop. Beau grinned. George was trying to get him with three-card Monte?

“Let me grab some money,” George said. He turned to open the till. Before he could turn back, Beau pulled out a tube of chapstick and quickly uncapped it to draw a line on the queen.

He was already back to using it on his lips by the time George turned around with a couple of fives.

“Ready?” George asked. “Ten dollars, you cannot find her.”

“Absolutely,” Beau said with a grin.

“Find the queen,” George repeated. He moved the cards around—his fingers clumsy on the sides. When he finished, he looked at Beau expectantly.

Beau tilted his head until the overhead light reflected off the smear of chapstick. “That one.”

“Ha, but no! It’s—” George flipped it up and frowned when he saw the queen. “Oh. That… ” He cupped his chin and glared at the cards. “I think—”

“Beau! Stop bothering our host and bring us more booze!” Flower bellowed.

“Next time,” Beau told George with a grin. He scooped the ten dollars off the bar-top. “Can you get everyone another round of the same?” 

“You really shouldn’t mess with him,” Wicks said as Beau returned to the seat beside Flower.

Beau scoffed. “If he wants to play, I’m not going to stop him.”

Wicks shook her head and took a small sip of scotch.

* * *

The smell of coffee dragged him upwards, the sound of Flower's voice intruding on what had been an amazing dream about Beau owning his own yacht.

"Wakey, wakey Sunshine."

Beau pulled himself away from the half-congealed puddle of drool on his pillow and squinted at the radio clock next to his bed.

"It's three in the morning," he whimpered. "What the fuck, Flower."

"We've got plans." Flower looped his elbow around his neck and hauled him up, waiting until he was half-steady before shoving the scalding cup of coffee into his hands. "Dress in black."

"Ughhhhh."

Flower vanished through the door adjoining their rooms, oblivious to Beau glaring at his back and wishing ugly ugliness upon him.

God, his coffee was shit, too.

Twenty minutes later, Beau stumbled after him towards the hotel elevators. "Where are we going?"

"The Andy Warhol Museum," Flower replied, tapping the call button impatiently.

"Are they open this early?"

Flower's finger paused in its tattoo and his face twisted up in disbelief. "Of course not." The elevator slid open and Flower herded him inside. "I thought while we were in town I could do a bit of shopping."

Shockingly, the lobby was empty save for a tired-looking receptionist behind the front desk, who not-so-subtly looked up from his phone as they passed. Flower offered a small wave and a forgettable smile, his hand hovering at the small of Beau’s back.

Once they were outside, he led them to a waiting Volkswagen Rabbit that had probably seen the height of its existence sometime around 1980. “Who’s car is this?”

“It’s on loan,” Flower replied. He waved Beau into the passenger seat. 

Flower reached for the radio, but Beau beat him to it, slapping his hand away and scrolling through the presets until finally finding Pittsburgh’s classic rock station. The space between them filled with GNR, and Beau found himself dozing off again. The only time three o’clock in the morning was a reasonable hour to be up was if you hadn’t been to bed yet.

Flower woke him from yet another wicked success dream by poking him in the ribs and telling him to grab his tools. Beau stumbled out of the car into a back alley, and let Flower steer him towards a nearby door. He knelt down in front of it to look at the lock.

“This is what, five pin?” he muttered. Flower didn’t reply and Beau sighed, grabbing his picks out of his pocket and going to work. Flower leaned against the wall beside him, flipping idly through a small notebook similar to the one in which he’d been tracking Beau’s results.

As it turned out, working on an actual door was a lot different than fiddling with padlocks, but Beau still managed to get it open in about five minutes. Flower nudged him aside and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Beau followed, attention riveted as Flower located a keypad on the wall and began punching in numbers. 

It beeped. Not an ominous beep, either. A healthy, ‘thanks for stopping by’ sort of beep. Flower lolled his head backwards and grinned at Beau over his shoulder.

“The fuck?” Beau asked.

“Bettman systems,” Flower said, waving for Beau to follow him. The hallway exited out into the main gallery, wall-to-wall pictures and paintings, sculptures and random stuff that it took Beau a second to recognize was an actual exhibit; things he’d seen online or in movies but never in person. “The designer was pretty lazy. Each version of the system has a bypass code that shuts it down completely. Geno got me a master-list for Christmas one year.”

Wandering through the museum with the lights off was odd, and sent a quiet thrill up Beau’s spine until his fingers were shaking in anticipation. Flower paused occasionally to study the exhibits, making quiet ‘hmms’ of interest every so often.

“Is the Carnegie going to be this easy?” Beau asked.

“Fuck no,” Flower replied. “The Carnegie is a whole different league. It’s why there’s a team working the job instead of the pair of us strolling in and helping ourselves.” They turned a corner and Flower’s face lit up. “Here we go.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Beau muttered. The entire wall was filled with pictures of cows. Either printed right onto the wall or mounted on frames. Flower strolled along until he paused at one in particular—pink, with a purple background. “Really?”

“It’s perfect,” Flower said. He ducked in to look at the back. “Perfect.” He waved Beau closer. “Take the corners.” He pulled a mostly-used roll of duct tape out from his pocket. “When I say so, pull it up and off.” Flower measured out about an inch of tape and eased his hand in behind the painting. “Three… two… Now.” 

Beau tugged the painting up and off the wall and Flower pressed the tape down on the pressure sensor underneath. They both paused, listening for anything to indicate that they’d triggered the security system. But nothing.

“Your friend is really going to like this?” Beau asked skeptically.

“Even if he doesn’t, it’s good for about twenty grand.”

"Twenty... _grand_?!" Beau leaned back, scanning the picture for anything that made it look like more than the a screen printed cow. "This. Is worth twenty thousand dollars. _It’s a pink fucking cow_.”

"Sunshine, the single most expensive painting I ever stole netted me about twenty million dollars through my fence, and he turned around and resold it for thirty-six. We might have a lot of competition professionally, but it's the best way to make decent money in this life with minimal risk to your own."

Beau followed him through the gallery back towards the fire exit. "I thought diamonds were the big draw these days?"

"You want to be a diamond thief, go train up under Kirilenko or Sharapova."

"You keep dropping these names like they're supposed to mean something to me," Beau muttered.

"They will, eventually. And once they do, it'll be good to know who you can trust in the field." Flower shoved him through the door. Once they were outside, Flower nabbed him by the back of the collar and slowed him to a casual walk on the trip to the car. The painting seemed heavier in his arms, like any second the police were going to pull up and drag him off to jail. He really, really didn't want his mom to field that sort of phone call.

Flower magnanimously allowed him to take the wheel, and pulled the painting into his lap. "Take Robinson all the way until it turns onto River, then take a left on Goodrich. I've got my car stashed in an overnight lot."

"What about car theft?" Beau asked.

"Unless you go with vintage models, GPS makes it more pain than it's worth. OnStar was the worst goddamn thing to happen to decent criminals."

Beau followed Flower's directions, and pulled the Volkswagen into a free spot when they reached the lot. Flower’s car was parked nearby—Beau recognized the dent in the back bumper.

Flower didn't climb in right away; instead he pulled a box cutter out of his back pocket and slid it between the canvas and the frame. "Watch closely." He efficiently slipped it along the underside of the canvas, separating it from the wood. Beau caught one of the corners as it peeled away and kept it from falling as Flower finished the job. "Tomorrow I'm sending you to Wal-Mart to buy a bunch of cheap prints. I want you to be able to do this in less than a minute."

"So, no more locks?" Beau asked gratefully.

Flower smirked. "You wish. Your time on anything over five pins is still shit. And you need to be the best."

"Why?" Beau asked. Flower's eyebrow twitched up. "I mean, I know you think you see... _something_ in me that you think will make a decent thief, but I don't understand why you're bothering with me."

Flower set the wooden frame on the ground and took the Warhol. He rolled it up tightly, as though he'd done it a thousand times before. He probably had. "I like you, Sunshine. If I hadn't, I would've cut you loose back in Denver. And it might be easy to find people to work with in this business, but it's harder to find people that you like. That you can trust." He ruffled Beau's hair; for once, Beau didn't pull away.

"And you trust me?" Beau asked skeptically. They'd known each other less than a month.

"I left you alone in my bolthole in Denver with a van Gogh worth seven million dollars and you were both still there when I got back. I'd say you pass the punk test."

Beau blinked. "Art is bullshit," he decided.

"Beautiful, valuable, gold-plated bullshit," Flower agreed. "Get in the car."

He climbed in, and Flower pulled a rolled up poster out of the backseat. It was a cheap, department-store offering of Lady Gaga, according to the preview on the side. Flower slid the Warhol into the middle of the poster, fitting so snugly it was almost impossible to tell it was two separate pieces.

"What are you going to do with it?"

Flower grinned ear to ear. "This? Is a shower gift. My buddy Max just had his first kid. Total asshole. He'll probably keep the Lady Gaga poster and ditch the Warhol, the stupid bastard." He handed the package to Beau and put the car in gear. "Come on. You still have time to get a couple hours of sleep before I send you out with Knight."

* * *

Hilary blinked awake, groaning when she turned her head and a flash of sunlight stabbed at her eyes. She buried her face back in the pillow, but roused a short second later, reluctantly drawn by the sound of footsteps approaching the bed.

“Morning,” Amanda said. She tossed her hair to the left to thread in a hoop earring. “Did I wake you?”

“Did you open the blinds?” Hilary asked.

Amanda smiled. “Maybe.”

“Devil woman.” Hilary forced herself to sit, and watched as Amanda pulled on a smart black dress. It crept up her thighs—a few inches short of appropriate—and Hilary took a long moment to appreciate the view. “Your boss is really going to love that.” She couldn’t fully keep the half-shade of jealousy out of her tone, and hoped that the snark covered it up.

Amanda smiled over her shoulder. “If you ever decide to brave the nine to five scene, you can criticize my choices. We can’t all beat people up for a living.” She slid towards the bed and turned her back. “Do me up.”

“That seems counterproductive,” Hilary said. It was the only warning she allowed before looping an arm around Amanda’s waist and pulling her back down atop the covers. Amanda shrieked with laughter, curling in on her side a Hilary effortlessly located the span of ticklishness on the underside of her right arm and scratched her blunt nails across it.

“You’re such an asshole,” Amanda laughed, helplessly whaling Hilary’s arm. It didn’t do any good; she didn’t have any leverage, which Hilary just had to take advantage of. When Amanda was reduced to a quivering mass of giggles, she finally let up. She maneuvered herself out from under the covers and pinned Amanda to the bed, resting her thigh between Amanda’s legs and allowing herself a selfish moment to nip at her collarbone.

“I’m going to be late,” Amanda whispered, though she bared her neck all the same.

Hilary ran her teeth up the pale expanse and pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin beneath Amanda’s ear. Amanda hummed happily and turned her head to catch Hilary’s mouth, pressing in a kiss that just skirted the line between chaste and not.

“I want to keep you here all day,” Hilary whispered.

Amanda brushed a loose lock of Hilary’s hair back from her forehead. “I want to stay here all day,” she admitted. “But I can’t lose this job.”

Hilary huffed unhappily. “I know.” She caught Amanda’s mouth with another kiss and reluctantly pulled back to run her tongue over her lips to chase the taste of lip gloss. “I’m going to enjoy taking this off you later.”

“You’ll need to get it on me first,” Amanda replied. She grabbed Hilary’s shoulder and used it to pull herself up. She looked at Hilary expectantly, and Hilary heaved an exaggerated sigh in response but obligingly did up the zipper. “Thanks boo.”

Amanda headed to the closet to grab a pair of pumps. She was obviously out to impress; heels made her legs look sinful as fuck. “Remember we’re going to visit Gran in the hospital after I get off.”

“I remember,” Hilary said. “Want to call me on your break?”

Amanda snorted. “If I get one.” She slid into a black blazer—her default business attire. “Five o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be,” Hilary promised. Amanda blew her a kiss, retrieved her purse from the dresser next to the door and headed out. Hilary stared at where she’d been standing for a few minutes longer than was strictly necessary, content to breathe in the lingering scent of her perfume, then dropped back onto the bed.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table a second later.

**don’t mope. get your ass out of bed. also remember we’re out of fruity pebbles.**

Hilary grinned, but buried her face back into the mountain of pillows again anyway.

* * *

“So, you’re a hitter,” Beau said, temporarily taking his eyes off the road to glance at Knight sidelong.

“Yep.”

“Why do we need a hitter?”

“Wicks said there’d be a nosy rookie tagging along that I might have to take care of.” Beau blanched. Knight’s face remained stony for another few seconds before she cracked up. 

“You guys are so mean to me. _Why_?”

“We all went through it. It’s a sign of affection.” She pulled into a back alley and slid to a halt in front of a heavy-looking security door. “We’re here.”

She stepped out of the car and Beau scrambled to follow. She knocked on the door—a simple tattoo that Beau was sure he’d heard before—and it opened a second later. The lady on the other side was shorter than Beau by about half a foot, slim, and of some sort of mixed Asian descent.

She also looked absolutely furious.

“I want you to know that I am, at my core, deeply offended at what you’re asking me to do.”

Knight leaned against the wall, an easy grin transforming her face into something all at once smug and self-satisfied. “Chuey, this is Sunshine, Flower’s new project. Sunshine, this is Julie Chu.”

Julie barely spared him a withering side-eye. “Deep, ethical problems.”

She stepped back into the building, and Knight barely managed to catch the heavy door before it closed behind her. Beau followed them inside, immediately assaulted by the overwhelming scent of paint.

“You’re an art forger. How do ethics come into play for you ever?” Knight demanded.

“Excuse you. I am an art _restorer_ ,” Julie snapped. She led them out into a larger studio, the walls covered in paintings he recognized from photos in heavy books usually left forgotten on coffee tables. “ _Forging_ is a hobby. It’s not my main vocation.”

“Right,” Knight muttered. “Sort of like how punching people is a hobby for me. We’re just asking you to do your thing—”

“No. You’re asking me to do a cheap version of my thing,” Julie sniffed. “I don’t do mediocre forgeries, Hilary. I do quality work. Asking me to make a reproduction that doesn’t pass even basic examinations is like asking you to smack someone’s arm when you’re supposed to be knocking them the fuck out.”

“Yes, but if the job called for me to take a fall, I’d take the fall.” Knight pulled a hefty-looking envelope out of her pocket and placed it down on a table mostly covered with cleaned brushes and slightly stained palettes. “Twenty thousand dollars. Another thirty once we’re finished.”

Julie sighed in exaggerated frustration. “Tell Wicks she owes me. And if word gets out that I made something less than spectacular, you lot have to get me an original of my choice.”

“Done.”

They shook on it and Julie finally smiled.

“Say hi to Amanda for me.”

“Will do.” They hugged briefly, slapping each other’s backs. “Come on, Sunshine.”

Knight not-too-subtly herded him down the hallway and back out the door to the car, steering him with her hand not quite on his elbow. Once they’d re-emerged in the fresh air—Beau took a huge lungful, surprised when he realized he’d been getting a little lightheaded—he turned a curious glance her way.

“Who’s Amanda?”

Knight slipped into the car and barely waited for him to shut the door before she replied, “My girlfriend.”

“Out in the club, sippin’ that bubb sort of girlfriend or—”

“I’m a lesbian.”

“Ah.” She pulled out of the alley and Beau took the chance to fiddle with the radio. Knight snorted back a laugh and reached out to ruffle his hair. Beau took it, for once not complaining about the whole ‘rookie’ treatment they had going on. It seemed a better option than Knight kicking his ass.

They tooled around downtown for a few minutes, Beau distracted by the radio long enough to lose track of where they were going. Knight slowed as they turned onto a small side street and came to a halt alongside a sleek black Maserati.

"See you later, Sunshine."

"Wha-"

Before he could do more than squawk, she reached past him and opened his door, then shoved him out onto the pavement. Beau watched in disbelief as she headed for the end of the street, bumping up against the curb hard enough to jostle the passenger-side door and swing it shut.

The Maserati's driver's window rolled down.

"You should have been wearing a seat belt," Wicks said, looking unimpressed. He wondered how much of a struggle it was for her to avoid tacking on the words 'young man.' "Get in the car."

Beau clamoured to his feet and rounded the car, trying not to stare too openly. When he slid into the buttery leather seats, he withheld a blissful sigh.

"This isn't very inconspicuous," he pointed out.

"Jealous," Wicks clucked. Which. Yeah. Who wouldn't be?

They took off in the opposite direction from Knight, heading into the Financial district. The car actually seemed to fit in with a lot of the others on the road, more than Flower's junky old Sedan would've, anyway.

"What're we doing?" he asked as Wicks pulled into a free parking spot across the street from a posh-looking restaurant.

Wicks didn't reply at first, just gestured with her chin. It took Beau a second to pick out Carter from among the diners.

"Is there a reason we're stalking our employer?" Beau asked, focusing on keeping his face aimed down at his phone while taking surreptitious peeks at Carter. He seemed to be abusing both the wait staff and a hundred years’ of table manners all in one sitting. He’d complain, but at least he wasn’t hunched over at their regular booth in the bar, practicing his lock picking.

"It's not stalking," Wicks replied. "I have a meeting with him tomorrow morning."

That probably made some weird sense in her head, but Beau decided not to ask. Carter had barely glimpsed upwards from his glass of mineral water, his lips flapping as he spoke to a pretty blond sitting across from him.

"Girlfriend?" Beau asked.

"Secretary," Wicks replied. "He only hires temps. Probably because they're less likely to report him for sexual harassment."

"He sounds like a gem," Beau muttered. They didn't really have a leg to stand on morally, he knew. They were criminals. But there was something that felt skeezy and wrong about working for a man who went through secretarial staff like used tissues.

"You don't know the half of it," Wicks told him. "Our friend there managed to get a fair chunk of change squirrelled away off shore before the government came down on him."

"So why aren't we running game on him, then?"

Wicks didn't reply. Instead, she straightened in her seat as Carter stood from his table and snapped his fingers at his secretary to follow.

"I need you to do a lift," Wicks said.

"What?"

"The outside pocket of his secretary's purse." Carter was halfway towards the restaurant exit. "Go."

Beau was up out of the car before he even realized he was moving—apparently Wicks was well aware of how Mom Voice worked. He crossed the street, weaving effortlessly between a couple of cars already slowing for the red light near the end of the block. He kept his head down, slipping into Carter's oncoming path.

Flower hadn't really clued him into every aspect of professional art theft, but Beau was pretty sure that stealing from your employer wasn't typically part of the job.

The secretary looked up as he passed between her and Carter, and gave him an appreciative once-over. He met her eyes for a second and winked, keeping her attention as he dipped his hand into her purse and closed his fingers around a leather ledger exactly where Wicks had told him to grab.

He returned to the car once he was sure they were clear.

"Here." He passed the ledger to Wicks.

"Good job, Sunshine." Wicks flipped it open and looking through the first few pages before settling it between her seat and the gearshift. "I'll slip it back during my meeting with him."

"What do you need it for?"

Wicks slid out of her parking spot and merged into traffic. “One of the first times I worked with a professional crew, I trusted my employers. Implicitly. I assumed that they would have my back regardless of their best interests. They didn’t. I paid for it.” She pursed her lips, and Beau caught himself eyeing the deep scar on her cheek.

She noticed his scrutiny and coughed. Her hands twitched on the steering wheel and Beau reaffixed his attention on his phone. 

"The point is, always make sure you protect yourself when you work with someone you don't know."

Beau nodded. "So that's what? Blackmail material?"

"Maybe," Wicks replied. She slid out of her parking spot and merged into traffic. "If it becomes an issue I'll let you know."

Beau nodded but couldn't help it when his attention drifted back to the ledger again and again. 

The team was already set up at the bar by the time they returned, crowded around a few mostly-full bottles. A pile of mixed cash, chips and hastily scribbled-upon napkins cluttered the table in between them, a deck of cards sitting conspicuously in front of Sid.

“Hey Wicks, Sunshine,” Geno said in greeting. He was nestled in the booth between Sid and Knight, slightly flushed and looking pleased with himself. “You want in?” 

“What are the stakes?” Wicks asked. 

Beau tilted his head to read one of the napkins, but only caught the word ‘Hirst’ before Flower threw down a two-pair of sixes and tens and the rest of the team groaned as one, folded their cards and allowed Flower to rake in the pile.

“Too high for me,” Beau muttered. He dropped into the free seat at the end of the table. “I don’t supposed I could get away with _not_ trying to pick a hundred locks in less than a minute a piece?”

“I’ll take you repelling tomorrow,” Flower promised as Sid dealt the next hand. “You’ve got to learn proper harness use anyway.”

“Why?” 

Flower grinned and poured Beau a pint from the pitcher sitting at his elbow. “Wicksy, tell Beau why he needs to learn how to use a harness.” 

“Because unlike people with common sense, Flower enjoys the theatrics involved in breaking into places by throwing himself off of buildings.” She grabbed Knight’s mostly-finished beer and downed the dregs, smacking Knight’s elbow away when she tried to dig it into Wicks’ side.

“Wicks is much better at planning than execution,” Flower confided. “Though she’s not bad at the grift when she needs to get her hands dirty.” 

“Long cons are more up Sid’s alley,” Wicks said absently. “I occasionally pretend to be other people. If anyone took half a look at my back-story, it’d fall apart.” She sniffed. “The only grift I’ve ever tried didn’t work too well.”

There was an uneasy silence, only broken when Sid offered, “The best covers are the simple ones.” 

“You literally just do the planning?” Beau asked. “I mean… you don’t grift, you’re not a thief, you don’t do… Whatever they do.” He waved at Geno and Knight. “You _just_ make plans to steal things?” Wicks nodded. Their conversation from the car still lurking in the back of his mind, he blurted out, “How do you ever get into something like that?” 

Wicks’ fingers paused on her tablet and she sat back, looking at Beau thoughtfully. “Well.” She waved at George, and he headed over to their table a few seconds later, bearing a full bottle of the expensive scotch she enjoyed. “I’m not sure about how anyone else might do it, but I started out in law enforcement.” 

Beau blinked, but a quick glance around the table confirmed that no one else seemed surprised. “You were a police officer?”

“I was a Liaison Officer for the International Operations Branch of the RCMP,” Wicks corrected. “I was investigating a smuggling ring that was bringing stolen artwork into Canada and my superiors and I decided that the best way to get intel was to become involved with the smugglers. I got a back-story, a reference from another smuggler we’d recently put into prison in exchange for a mitigated sentence, and arranged for a meeting. The crew wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. Mostly women, for one. Very smart, talented women. Women it was easy to become close to. I found out that they were working with a couple of professional art thieves and were moving the stolen works to Canada to fence them to a small ring of private collectors. There was another job being planned and Cassie—their leader—walked me through everything step-by-step. When it came time to report… I didn’t. And the next day I was arrested by the local authorities for conspiracy to commit theft.

“I was tossed into a prison in Turkey for eight weeks while the Canadian embassy tried to sort out my release. They worked me over a bit.” She ran her tongue across her front teeth; Beau wasn’t sure if she even realized she was doing it. “Eventually they sent me home. I was placed on administrative leave. ‘Pending investigation into my negligence,’ they said. They delivered the memo while I was still in the hospital.

“A couple of days after I got home, Cassie showed up at my door. Offered me a passport with a new name on it. I never looked back.” 

“We’re glad you didn’t, Mama,” Knight said. 

Wicks fondly punched her arm. “Me too.” She smiled. “I took over Cassie’s crew when she retired from the game. And after a couple of years, decided that planning was more my speed than smuggling.” 

“Wicks has saved all our asses at one time or another,” Flower said. “No one plots shit out like she does.”

“Best in the business,” Sid agreed.

Flower grinned ear to ear. “Tell my klepto-baby how you got in, Sid. I don’t think Knight knows the story either.”

Sid blushed. “I…” Flower dug a couple of fingers into Sid’s side and Sid honked out an undignified giggle and squirmed away. “Fine, fine. Quit it. Jesus.” He straightened, and Beau could see him mentally preparing to deliver some sort of speech. How was it that someone who professionally lied for a living was so awkward when talking to his friends? “There I am,” Sid began, effortlessly shuffling the cards in his hands. “My mom sick. Dad working out of town. No money. A sister who needed to eat. I’m good at shoplifting already, but not a full meal’s worth of good. I go online to look for tricks I can try, and I decide to try the flop.”

Geno cuffed the back of his head, though it turned into something resembling a caress. “Idiot,” he scolds. “Flop is so dangerous! People paralyzed when they do it wrong.”

“Well, everyone thinks they’re immortal at sixteen,” Sid muttered. “I got pretty good at it, though. Figured out which cars were likeliest to end in a payday—soccer moms don’t usually carry a lot of cash—which ones were going too fast for me to do it and not get hurt. Managed to keep food on the table for us.

“Anyway, one afternoon I head downtown and wait for a decent mark. And eventually I see this gorgeous Rolls Royce. Nicest I’d seen outside of a magazine. The driver’s going slow enough, and I decide to go for it. Whoever drives a car like that has to be pretty well-off, right?”

He cut the deck randomly and flipped the top card onto the table between himself and Geno. The king of spades looked judgmentally up at them.

“The driver is Mario Lemeiux.”

“You tried to run game on Mario Lemieux?” Knight repeated flatly. “Geez, Sid.” Hilary leaned across the table to grab the near-empty pitcher beside Flower and refilled her pint glass with the remains. “When you fuck up, you really fuck up, don’t you?”

“Not done yet,” Sid continued. “Mario plays along at first. Checks my ribs. Makes sure I’m not actually hurt. Then he tells me I’m the worst goddamn actor he’s ever seen, and I should probably look at fast food as a potential career and leave cons to the experts.”

“Ouch,” Beau muttered.

“Was that your big brush with fame?” Knight asked. “‘I once tried to run the flop on Mario Lemieux and all I got was a lecture?’”

Sid shook his head. “Not quite.” He twisted the cards around in his hands and flipped up another card without even glancing downwards. It landed face down in front of Beau. When he turned it over, the jack of spades seemed to wink at him. “While he was checking me over, I stole his wallet.” The table fell into stunned silence. “Got about three blocks away before he tracked me down. Told me he wasn’t usually wrong about people, but he’d obviously overlooked my potential. Took me on. He had me working as his errand boy for the first few years, but he taught me everything I know.” Sid’s eyes lit up with warmth.

“Okay,” Hilary finally smirked. “I’m impressed.”

“Who’s Mario Lemieux?” Beau asked.

As one, the entire group turned his way. Flower nicked his pint glass, wagging a finger at him when Beau whined in wordless protest. “Uh uh. Children don’t get to drink.”

“I thought we were past the ‘child’ thing,” Beau huffed.

“You are officially downgraded again until you have a proper appreciation of history,” Flower said. He finished off Beau’s pint.

“Mario is a legend,” Wicks told him. “He and Jaromír Jagr ran game on half the Eastern seaboard for twenty years. Retired twice. Practically wrote the book on the modern long con.”

“So where is he now?” Beau asked.

“Retired,” Sid replied. “For real, this time. Living with his wife and kids. He still keeps a hand in the game, but he doesn’t take on many jobs anymore.”

Hilary slanted a look Geno’s way. “So I know Sid’s story. And Phil and Flower worked a job together a few years ago, and I got an earful of passive-aggressive French Canadese for ‘mind your goddamn business’ when I asked him.” Flower shrugged unapologetically. “What about you, Geno?”

Geno’s lips twisted up, wry. “Wanted hockey stick, got computer. Good deal.”

Sid shuffled the cards again and Flower passed the empty pitcher Beau’s way, then pointed towards the bar.

Beau rolled his eyes and rose to his feet. 

As he drew closer, George waved him over. “This time I have it! Come, come. I show you.”

George was using the same deck, and when he pulled out the cards Beau could see the smear of chapstick still clearly in place on the top right corner of the queen.

“Twenty dollars this time!” George said, grinning.

Beau smirked. “Twenty dollars and free drinks for me and my friends for the night.”

George peered at him, suspicious. Beau didn’t blame him—Knight and Geno were already halfway through their respective bottles. But whatever his doubts, he nodded just a moment later. “Done.”

He began tossing the cards, his movements just as clunky and slow as they’d been the last time he’d lost. Beau waited patiently until he was done.

“That one,” Beau said, gesturing to the queen. George barely had the face card turned upright before Beau was slapping his arm and passing over the pitcher. “Fill ‘er up. Thanks, man.” He headed back to the table, pausing in step when he heard the beginning of their conversation.

“If you needed to hire a professional to murder someone locally, who would you call?” Wicks asked, looking entirely nonplussed, her attention half on the tablet of schematics Sid had passed her way earlier that evening. Carter’s ledger had reappeared at her side, sitting underneath her ever-present tablet.

“Neal,” Sid said immediately.

“Jail,” Knight countered. “He’s doing time up in Nashville.”

Wicks and Sid both looked at her in surprise. “Fuck, really?” Wicks asked. Knight nodded. “He get busted on the job?”

“Nope. Parking tickets.”

Geno murmured something in Russian that didn’t sound flattering.

“Benn and Seguin are reliable,” Knight offered with a shrug.

“Benn is reliable,” Sid agreed. “But Seguin is a showboat. And they’re taking a hiatus in favour of manning the front line for the fight for marriage equality in Dallas. If you want someone local, I’d choose Martin. He’s good with clean up, and I hear his cousin owns about thirty acres of underused farmland out in Minnesota.”

“Do you guys have these conversations just to mess with me?” Beau demanded.

Wicks grinned.

Sometimes, Beau really regretted working that fundraiser.

George carried over a tray laden with the refilled pitcher as well as Wicks’ usual order, glowering. “You cheat,” he half-growled at Beau.

Beau grinned. “Don’t be a sore loser, George. Just pay up gracefully.”

George thunked the tray down and stalked back towards the bar.

“You really shouldn’t mess with him,” Sid told him as Geno doled out the drinks.

Beau’s smile widened.

“All right,” Wicks said, quick on the tail of a sip of scotch. “You’ve been in there a week, Sid. What do you have on their systems?”

“It’s not the worst I’ve ever seen,” Sid said, sounding way more confident than Beau probably would’ve. “The museum itself is manned with one of the new Bastille systems.”

“All digital,” Geno mused. “Can take everything down at once, if am able to get in. Bastille hard to access remotely. Easier if I’m have back door installed.”

“Sid?” Wicks prompted.

“I can do that,” Sid replied. “One of the security guards is lonely and pretty hard up for a night off. I’ll see if he doesn’t want to get a little frisky in the server room… It’s close to the main desk and doesn’t have any cameras.” Geno muttered darkly under his breath, and Beau had an angle enough to see Sid pinch his side in response. “They also haven’t entirely updated from their old analogue system. Most of the place is covered by CCTV.”

“Fuck,” Flower muttered.

“What?” Beau asked. “Isn’t that, like, easy? I thought CCTV systems were all hard wired. A single snip and it all goes down.”

“Hence the problem,” Flower replied. “If we want to make it so that it doesn’t seem like the paintings were stolen, it’s going to be a hard job explaining why their surveillance system went down. At least with the Bastille we can splice in a fake feed. Can’t do that with closed circuit.”

Wicks downed her scotch and tapped the table with the bottom of the empty glass. “Knight, you up for beating up a few security guards?”

“Are you kidding?” Knight snorted. “For a while I thought you’d just brought me aboard so this job wouldn’t turn into a huge sausage fest like usual.”

Sid choked on his water and Knight helpfully pounded on his back until he could breathe again.

“Okay,” Wicks said once Sid had remembered how to breathe, “This just turned into two jobs. We’ve got to steal Carter’s paintings, but we’re also going to have to pull off one hell of a sack of rice to do it.”

“A what?” Beau asked. 

Knight glanced his way. “So, there’s this guy, right? Every day, he goes through border security on his bicycle, holding a sack of rice. The guards have been tipped off that there’s a smuggler going through, but not what he’s smuggling. They figure this guy’s the one. When he goes through, they search the sack of rice, frisk the guy, look through his pockets, but can’t find anything on him. Every day, they go through the same thing. Guy on a bike, sack of rice, search. After weeks of this, one of the border guards is off duty and runs into the guy at a noodle house. He sits down and tells the guy that he’s due to be shipped out the next day, and he really wants to know what the guy’s been smuggling. Won’t hold it against him, but he’s just dying of curiosity. The guy smiles at him and says, ‘bicycles.’” 

“Ohhh, so, a sack of rice…” Beau nodded to himself. “I get it.” 

“Someone get in touch with Dupuis and find out what the other target should be,” Wicks said. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Sid replied. 

Beau straightened, trying not to look entirely obvious about it. Judging from Geno’s snort of amusement, he’d failed.

Flower, however, did level a look his way. “You want something to do, kid?”

“Fuck yes,” Beau breathed. Wasn’t that why Flower had brought him aboard? Wasn’t it why he was here? To train and learn something more than pick pocketing and fleecing assholes who didn’t know how to play poker?

“Okay,” Flower gestured to Wicks, and she passed him over her tablet and he played around with it a moment before passing it over. “This is a Riker system. Top of the line residential security. I want you to figure out how to beat it in less than an hour. In and out.”

Beau frowned. “Why do I need to know how to beat a residential system?”

“You jump right from trike to ten speed, kid? Figure it out, then we’ll talk.”

Beau sighed, though it felt perfunctory. He’d never tried to break into a high-end private residence before; this could be fun. A lot of fun. Or, at least it would be if he hadn’t already heard ridiculous stories about Riker security systems and how they’d made it near impossible to break into private galleries.

* * *

The trick to pretending to be a full time student was smelling like too much caffeine and feigning an air of starved desperation. Sid had acquired a few pairs of well-loved jeans from second hand stores—all of which fit too tight through his ass while at the same time managing to be baggy around his crotch—and matched them with short-sleeve button ups and a mishmash of ties that looked like they’d been liberated from a father’s collection of gifts that were well-intentioned but only worn once. Add thick-rimmed glasses and he was just another art history student among the dozens that gathered in the Galleries day in and day out.

The wig was itchy, though. But curly blond hair was inoffensive and unremarkable, especially when combined with the student “aesthetic.”

Sid found himself in the largest of the individual rooms on the second floor. The benches in front of the paintings were mostly empty, just a few scattered men and women sitting by themselves. Sid wandered across the room, a weighty textbook tucked under one arm and a travel mug of coffee in his other hand; his fifth cup of the morning—the museum provided free coffee to the students working under the curator, and Sid tried to match them cup-for-cup. 

A lot of the paintings were outside his purview as a student. He was supposed to be studying Avinoff. It didn’t stop him from crossing the room to stand in front of the lone Matisse they had on display.

He wasn’t the only one there to look at it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Sid did Dupuis a favour and didn’t look straight towards the bench. The cameras in the room didn’t pick up audio, but he’d heard the rumours about Selanne once getting busted by a cop who could lip read. He hadn’t taken any chances since. 

Sid nodded instead, and kept his head tilted away from the security camera in the corner. Not enough to arouse suspicion, just enough to avoid direct line of sight. “Absolutely.” 

“I often wish I owned a piece like this,” Dupuis continued. “I think she looks like my mother. But I suppose that wishes only come true in fairy tales.”

“How many wishes are we talking?” Sid asked.

“I’d say six and a half wishes would just about do it,” Dupuis replied. 

“Is that the going market rate for this piece when it comes to wishes right now?”

“It’s a bit conservative, but you wouldn’t get much better at auction for this piece in particular.” 

“And you’d say this piece would be worth the most wishes to you?”

“I think that if I had to spend my wishes, it would be on this.” 

“Right. Well. I hope your wish comes true, let’s say, next Wednesday night? Jagged Edge?”

“I can be there after I put the kids to bed.” Dupuis stood up. “Shall we say small wishes in the fifty to hundred wish denomination?” 

“Perfect.” Sid flipped open his textbook and tilted it to show off a print out of the paintings in Carter’s collection. “If one were in the market for these pieces, how many wishes do you think they’d want to use on them?”

Dupuis side-eyed the print out. “These are all from the private collection two rooms down.” Sid nodded and Dupuis huffed. “Such a mess. It pisses me off when rich people are told to invest in art and buy up every expensive piece they can find without a thought to the coherency of the collection.”

“Works out in our favour, when it happens,” Sid pointed out.

“Still pisses me off.” Dupuis sniffed and examined the print outs another moment. “For the two Kandinsky pieces, I’d say nineteen. The Monet pieces will get you fifty-five if you sell them all three together, a bit less if you sell them apart. The Pisarro will go for four point five. I know a private collector who’s been looking for that Schiele and will pay twenty-five cash up front. The two Giacometti pieces will get you the most. I’d say if you accept less than seventy-five, you should demand your buyer take you out for dinner first they're definitely trying to fuck you. And the Klimt no less than twenty-six.” A shrug followed. “Those are auction prices, though. If you wanted to, say, provide them under less than legitimate means, all together you’d only get about one seventy-five. Need me to get you in touch with some buyers?”

“Not yet. Wicks wanted the total.” Sid snapped his textbook shut. “Have a good visit, Dupuis. Say hi to Pascal and the kids for me.” 

Carol-Lyne nodded. “Will do. See you next week.”

* * *

Beau was down to a minute and a half on all the locks but the most advanced padlock Flower had put in front of him. And he wasn’t going to lie… It felt good. He wasn’t keen to go back to using pop can shivs to break into gym lockers or anything, but knowing how to manipulate locks well enough to get them open so quickly was sort of nice. And eventually he’d figure out why Flower kept laughing at him whenever he asked about using a paperclip like they did in the movies.

Sid showed up about half an hour after the rest of them that evening, the absurd wig still plastered to his head. 

“You own a lot of polos,” Beau said as Sid took his customary seat next to Geno.

“Sidney Messier owns a lot of polos,” Sid corrected. “All of which are going to be donated to local shelters when this is done, because I’m sick of wearing them.” Geno snorted and tipped his beer in Sid’s direction. Sid shook his head absently and redirected his attention to Wicks. “Dupuis came by the museum today. She says that the entire collection is worth about one seventy-five if we fence it all illegally.” 

“One seventy-five?” Beau repeated. His brow furrowed. “Million? One hundred and seventy-five million?!”

“Well, they seized all his large assets,” Wicks replied.

“Gold-plated bullshit,” Flower reminded him.

“Ten percent is seventeen million,” Beau said reverently. “That’s almost three million apiece.” 

“Look at you putting that eighth grade math to work,” Flower laughed.

“You don’t get an equal cut, rookie,” Knight told him. “Sorry. Thems the breaks. You get whatever Flower feels like sparing.” 

Beau was not going to pout. He wasn’t. Pouting. And he definitely wasn’t turning pathetic puppy eyes on Flower; his puppy eyes were soulful and mature. Flower snorted a laugh and then coughed when scotch went up his nose. Served him right. Asshole. 

“What does she want for herself?” 

“She’s looking at a Matisse. It’s not the most valuable one in the museum, but she’s interested in it for personal reasons,” Sid replied. He gestured for Wicks to hand him her tablet, and she gamely passed it his way. “It’s in the Scaife Galleries, so I’m not confident there’s an easy way in and out.” He flipped from screen to screen through the floor plans they’d downloaded from the museum’s website. “There are a couple of skylights you might be able to access.”

“No way,” Flower replied. “If I’m going to be cutting CCTV feed, I’ll need a more obvious way in. I don’t want to make it too smooth or they’re going to wonder what else I was up to while I was in there.” 

Their heads all crowded around the floor plans, and Geno sat back in his seat to dick around on his laptop. Knight pulled out her phone, and while Beau thought that maybe he should’ve been involved in the discussion, his attention wavered when he noticed George trying to catch his eye across the bar.

“Beau, come come,” George called.

Beau smirked at Geno and headed to the bar. “You know, George, I’m really starting to feel bad for taking all your money.”

George waved a hand. “We not play for money this time.” Beau’s eyebrows rose. “This time, I win, you come to dinner with me.”

“What, like a date?” He let his eyes trail up and down George’s torso. It wasn’t like George wasn’t a good-looking guy, but Beau honestly hadn’t ever looked at him as more than a mark. Still, there was a certain salt-and-pepper sort of appeal about him. Not that he was going to win or anything.

“Yes, ‘like a date,’” George repeated with a grin.

Behind Beau, Sid sighed audibly. “Could you two not… ”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Beau said. “But if I win, we get free drinks forever.”

George nodded and stuck out his hand. Beau took it and shook - George had a good grip - and waited for him to produce the cards.

“Ready?” George asked. When Beau nodded, George slowly began moving the three cards around.

Slow became slightly faster.

“You been practicing?” Beau asked.

George smiled. His speed increased. Gradually, his movements changed from klutzy manhandling to smooth, effortless manipulation. He spread his fingers and his hands glanced over the cards, and between one breath and the next the original cards he’d been using were gone, replaced with a few from an entirely different deck.

“What the fuck,” Beau said, trying and failing not to let his jaw drop.

“I warned you,” Sid murmured, appearing behind Beau to hand over Wicks’ empty glass. Which, totally not buddies.

When George was done, he caught Beau’s eyes. Deep-set amusement seemed to make them dance, and Beau scraped his hands through his hair.

“You knew I’d marked the cards,” he said.

George shrugged, his smile shifting to something a lot more smug.

“You’re lucky he didn’t play you for everything you had. When he did this to me, I ended up being out my entire take from the job I’d been working on,” Sid stated. He peered over Beau’s shoulder. “You done fucking with the rookie, Jags?”

“For now,” George—Jags?—laughed. He tucked the cards away. “Tell you what. I’ll bring out the first round free. You decide where we’re going for dinner.”

Beau sighed. “Thanks.”

“And you should probably call me Jaromír.”

* * *

Beau ended up picking a burger place for their date. Casual, so he could at least pretend his first real night out since Flower had swept down and dragged him kicking and screaming out of Denver was more than his inability to spot a con. And if Jaromír never showed up because this was yet another step in the campaign to haze the rookie, he could console himself with beer and beefy goodness. 

He didn’t pace out front when he arrived first. And he didn’t obsessively check his phone, either for messages from Flower or one from Jaromír laughing at him for buying into the whole date thing in the first place. He didn’t really think Jaromír was that guy. Then again, until a few nights ago he’d thought Jaromír’s name was George and he’d been a clueless bartender and easy mark, so maybe his character judgement needed work.

Jaromír arrived ten minutes late—just long enough for Beau to begin chastising himself for falling for yet another con—and smiled the easy grin that reminded Beau that agreeing to this hadn’t really been much of a hardship.

“My sister and I ate burgers all the time back home,” Beau said once the host had shown them to their table.

Jaromír smiled. “Hopefully you will not get the two of us mixed up.”

Though the drink menu made a valiant showing for itself. It was just long enough to keep him occupied until the waitress came and went, orders for a couple of pints neatly jotted down on her pad.

“You have family, then?” Jaromír ventured after a few moments of almost-uncomfortable silence.

“Yeah. Two brothers and a sister. They’re both back in Cali.”

“What brought you out East?”

“My parents divorced,” Beau shrugged. “It started to feel too crowded in my mom’s new place. Me, both my brothers and my sister Bailey all in one two bedroom place with my Mom. I just… I dunno. I mean, I wish I could say I did a paper route and saved enough money to run away to New York so I could follow my Broadway dreams or something, but really I just ran short count on every convenience store in the neighbourhood until I had enough for a bus ticket out of town. The first one leaving was headed to Denver, so that’s where I went.”

“Short count,” Jaromír mused. “I love the classics.” He sat back in his seat, nodding to the waitress when she dropped off their beers, and traced his fingers through the condensation on his glass. “You’ll find almost every decent thief gets their start with short cons. Unless you have a mentor right off the bat.”

“I was mostly picking pockets when Flower grabbed me,” Beau admitted. “It wasn’t a great living, but I wasn’t fighting with four other people for the bathroom in the morning, at least.”

“If Flower decided to take you on, then picking pockets was obviously a waste of talent.” He finally sipped at his beer. “He’s one of the best in the business.”

“Yeah, so he’s told me.”

Jaromír laughed. It was a great sound. “How about you? Family?” 

“Some, back in Kladno. But you work with certain people long enough, they become your family. Even when you can’t stand them.” They paused briefly to order entrees, and Beau gave Jaromír a few moments to gather his thoughts when he didn’t immediately continue. “I was already out of Pittsburgh when Mario adopted Sid. I thought it was a stupid idea—mixing your family with the job. But he seemed to make out all right.” He finished his beer with a long pull. “Makes me wonder if I missed something.”

“Why come back to Pittsburgh, then?”

“Well, when you retire you want something familiar. And I have many, many good memories of this place. Also, I think the police here are no longer looking for me, which I cannot say for some of the other cities. I’ve worked with a lot of decent villains.”

Beau grinned. “Who’s the best crew you’ve worked with?”

“Ah, kid. I’ve worked with too many to say. When I first got to America and ran game with Mario, I thought I wanted to live and die in Pittsburgh. But I stopped growing, eventually. If you get too used to your crew, you get sloppy. It becomes a liability. Even when the crew is as good as ours was. You take for granted that the mark isn’t going to catch on, and you end up in steel bracelets. I was only arrested once. Let me tell you, once was enough. I left town as soon as I paid bail. Didn’t come back for years. Not until I’d retired and I realized that I wanted Pittsburgh to be home.”

“Flower says that great thieves don’t retire, they just find other hobbies for a while.”

“Spoken like someone who didn’t gamble away his life savings” Jaromír muttered, a touch of bitterness in his tone.

Beau finished his beer. “So, if you don’t have a favourite crew, did you have a few memorable ones?”

“I worked with the Ginger over in Philly for a few months.”

Beau wrinkled his nose. What sort of criminal called himself the Ginger?

“There’s a new generation of great artists coming up through the ranks. You’re one of them, I think. Men and women who have a better understanding of the game than I did when I first started out. My first big job, I walked away with one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and a reputation. Mario was impressed. His crew was impressed… But fast forward fifteen years or so, and Sid’s first real job netted him something in the area of three and a half million when he sold the Pittsburgh Penguins to five different buyers at the same time. The game is changing. Not just the money, but the demands and skill of the players. If you aren’t good enough to make a name for yourself, you just end up fleecing tourists for pocket change, and no one wants that sort of life. Not really.”

The waitress delivered their food, and Beau tucked in thoughtfully. When he’d gone with Flower, he’d understood what he was getting into. He’d thought so, at least. “I still don’t really know what I’m doing half the time,” he admitted. 

“You’ll learn,” Jaromír said, way more confident than Beau felt. “Wicks, Flower, even Sid, they all have an eye for talent. If you’re going to train for the long con, or proper theft, there aren’t many people who could do you better.”

“And you?” Beau asked.

Jaromír’s lips shifted into an appreciative smirk. “I’m eyeing you for something else entirely.”

Beau’s ears heated and his burger paused halfway to his mouth. He didn’t realize he was running his tongue across his lips until Jaromír’s attention flew violently to his mouth. He put down his burger and tried to keep his voice from shaking as he asked, “What did you have in mind?”

* * *

Like Mario, Sid owned a number of boltholes in cities in which he regularly worked. He had two in Pittsburgh, not including the third floor of Mario and Nathalie’s lavish home in Sewickley. Regardless of how often he took jobs around the continent, Pittsburgh was one of few places he called home. He had what he lovingly referred to as his retirement property up in Nova Scotia, filled with artwork he couldn’t bear to part with and mementos that might mean years in prison if they were ever found. In contrast, his places in Pittsburgh were smaller and sparsely decorated; somewhere to sleep and think. There was a list of people he could count on one hand that knew where they were.

Which meant the person at his door was either Flower or Geno; Mario typically called before dropping in, and never bothered Sid during a job.

Sid’s attention snapped away from his laptop, pathetically relieved and annoyed to be pulled away from it all at once. He stood, stretched—his back popped painfully—and headed for the door.

Of course it was Geno.

“I’m busy,” he said immediately, half-closing the door and glaring Geno down when he started to muscle his way in.

Geno blinked. “What with?” 

“I’m trying to pretend I know enough about art history to write a thesis on Avinoff’s perceptions of the male form. The curator wants to see the progress I’ve made since flying in.” Sid waved at his laptop. “So far, I’ve just been distracted by good looking and mostly naked guys and trying to figure out how anyone in academia gets shit done.”

Geno stuck his tongue out a bit. “They better looking than me?”

Sid rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” He finally opened the door. “Come on. I’m probably not getting anything done tonight anyway. You want a beer?” This far into the job, he felt comfortable having a single drink, occasionally. Hell, considering how much he was struggling with this goddamn paper, drinking only added to the authenticity of his story.

“Don’t know. You still buy shit?” 

“Fuck off,” Sid said fondly. He headed to his kitchenette to grab a couple of bottles. Geno looked at the offering judgmentally—yeah, Sid really did buy shit when it came to beer—but accepted it regardless. He waved Geno to the IKEA futon that took up the majority of the space in his living room. “How’s it going on your end?” 

“Bastille system is tricky, but I’ve dealt with them before. Easy now you get me my backdoor.” He sat down on the left side and sprawled, lanky limbs stretching out until he was taking up a frankly absurd amount of room. Sid took in a steadying breath through his nose, kept his eyes off how ridiculously long Geno’s legs looked, and sat on the far side. “I’m still in shit house?”

“Dog house,” Sid corrected. From Geno’s grin, he knew the difference. 

“Dog house,” Geno agreed. “Am I?” 

It wasn’t like they’d gotten much time alone to talk since Sid had picked Geno up from the airport. Sid had spent most of his time at the museum, and Geno was busy scrabbling to remember every trick in the book when it came to Bastille systems and their bullshit safeguards. “Kind of, yeah.” 

Geno sighed. “Have a heart, Sid.”

Sid’s stomach tightened. That was so unfair. Despite himself, his back stiffened until he was sitting rigidly uncomfortable, and he had to stop himself from picking at the beer label, since he didn’t have a quarter to play with. “You’re the one who disappeared without a goddamn word, Geno.” And, okay, he sort of got it. Friends were important. Lord knew he’d done some pretty stupid shit for Flower over the years. But seriously, it wasn’t like planes were timed so precisely that Geno would’ve missed his flight by taking ten goddamn seconds to leave a note.

“I’m sorry,” Geno said. Sid’s anger bled away like it was nothing. Geno put his untouched beer down on the floor and shifted to look Sid’s way. “I freak out, Sid. Work with you, talk with you, fuck with you… It was too much, you know? Afraid I wake up in love with you, and then what do we do? Sasha calls, tells me Masha broke his heart, it was easy to go. Easy to stay away. Until it got hard.” 

Sid swallowed. “You’re not in love with me, Geno.” 

Geno’s lips tightened into a hard frown. “Maybe I am,” he said. “You can’t say I’m not. Can’t con me out of my feelings, Sid. You not that good.” 

It was instinct to argue the point—Sid was fucking excellent at conning people, okay?—but when he considered what Geno was saying, he suddenly didn’t want to. 

“So what if you do wake up in love with me?” Sid asked, proud of how level he managed to keep his voice. “Are you going to freak out again and take off for Russia? Disappear with Alex and not call for a year and a half?”

“I call,” Geno promised. “If I go. Every day. Maybe you come with me? Russia is…” 

He didn’t finish. Maybe he didn’t have to. Sid could list a number of things after the words ‘Canada is.’ Pittsburgh might’ve been where they landed on as somewhere to work—somewhere to call home in between flights and when they needed somewhere dependable to sleep as they figured out a job—but ‘Pittsburgh is’ would never have as much meaning.

“I’ve never worked in Russia,” Sid admitted.

“Important not to get caught,” Geno told him. He paused just long enough for Sid to wonder if Geno was waiting for him to speak, when, “My parents still there.” 

“Oh.” 

“Could work with Sasha again.” Geno paused. “Could meet them.” 

“I’m never working with Alex again.” The only good thing that had ever come of working with Ovechkin had been his introduction to Geno. “But, if you wanted to introduce me to your parents…” 

Geno turned his head and met Sid’s eyes. Then, with a pointed glare to the space between them, grabbed a hold of Sid’s shirt and pulled him closer. Sid went, allowing his knees to scrape against the rough upholstery, and ended up half-leaning against Geno’s thigh. 

“You…” Geno’s hands skirted up under the hem of Sid’s shirt—a battered relic from his days back up in Nova Scotia—and scraped his nails across Sid’s skin. “You’re such a distraction,” Sid finished. He gamely allowed Geno to pull him down onto his lap.

“Mmm,” Geno agreed. “You like.” It wasn’t much of a question, but Sid pulled back anyway to meet Geno’s eyes.

“I do,” he replied. Geno’s smile shifted, changing from something smug to something softer that Sid was afraid to put a name to. “I’ll come to Russia. But, Geno… Please. Stay with me,” Sid said. Geno seemed just as surprised by the words as Sid felt, and Geno’s hands tightened on his hips. Before he could stop himself, a promise spilled from his lips, “I’ll keep you out of jail.”

“Is that the only reason I should stay?” Geno asked, his voice dipping to a whisper and breaking. 

Sid caught Geno’s eyes. Searched them. He knew more about Geno than he did about anyone. For both their lives, it had always been a matter of running. Hiding. Never staying. Sid just… he wanted to settle. Maybe not retire—Flower always said that decent thieves never retired—but have something permanent he could come back to. And, startlingly, he wanted that permanence to revolve around Geno. 

Geno’s eyes were full of quiet hope. It was a revelation. 

Sid felt his mouth curve into a small smile, and he bit down on his lower lip to stop himself from giving too much away. Geno pressed his thumb against the bite-reddened skin until Sid allowed him to pull it free and he chased his fingers with a brief press of lips.

“I stay,” he finally replied. The brilliant smile Sid had been trying to tamp down escaped, and Sid’s cheeks began to ache with the force of it. “But if Sasha goes to prison, we help break him out. He is a wreck without Masha.”

Sid loosed an exaggerated sigh—though he was sure he ruined it with his inability to stop smiling—and nodded. “If we must.”

Geno kissed him again and Sid settled in his lap, unable to help an enthusiastic murmur of wordless pleasure escaping his lips. It was embarrassing, really, but Geno’s mouth smiled against his and. Well. 

* * *

It wasn’t that Beau disliked Madonna, but he could’ve done without her reminding him that she was a material girl from the tinny speakers of his phone every time Flower called. He should’ve been able to figure out how to change it back, too, but Geno had gotten his hands on his phone and done some wonky stuff and Beau was pretty sure that his entire photo album was also filled with random dick pics but he’d only looked at one before deciding to never, ever use the camera on his phone again.

Beau blearily lifted his head off the unfamiliar pillow and peered over the edge of the bed. “Where did I leave my pants?”

Jaromír snored in response. With a half-hearted grumble, Beau rolled out of bed and landed on his knees, blindly groping around for his jeans. He didn’t get his phone out in time to answer Flower’s call, of course, but Flower called back less than a minute later.

“Did I interrupt something?” Flower asked. So help him, Beau could _hear_ him smirking. How did he do that? _Why was everyone in this crew so goddamn fond of smirking?_

“Just sleeping,” Beau answered honestly.

“Hmmm.” There was the sound of a long, suspicious slurp of the tar Flower had the gall to refer to as coffee. “You figure out the Riker system yet?”

“Working on it,” Beau answered, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye. The system was bullshit. Beau had gotten Geno to download him the plans from the manufacturer so he could look at it from that angle, and he still thought it was bullshit. There were layers upon layers of increasing bullshittery every time he looked at it. Not only did Beau hate the system, the manufacturer and Flower, he was beginning to hate himself a little for not being able to get it. 

“Well _vite, vite_ , kiddo. We’ve only got a week left.”

“Are you going to tell me why I’m working on a residential system when we’re robbing an art gallery?” Especially _this_ system. Flower at least could’ve started him on something easy, like a fucking bank vault.

“No,” Flower answered. He hung up a second later and Beau resentfully glared at his phone. 

He rubbed his eyes again, phone loosely hanging from his fingertips. He rolled his neck and glanced back at the bed, the corner of his mouth twitching in a small smile when he saw Jaromír helpfully holding up the covers for him. Beau thankfully dragged himself back across the floor to the bed to lever himself back into the warm sheets.

Jaromír rolled over, tucking himself up against Beau’s side. He wrapped a hand around the back of Beau’s neck and tilted his head just so, allowing his lips to drift across Beau’s. Jaromír’s kisses reminded Beau of the scotch he served at the bar: rich and warm, with enough lingering heat to trace their way up and down Beau’s nerves before settling curled and anticipatory in his stomach. He chased the press of his lips with the barest brush of his tongue before he pulled back and rubbed his forehead against Beau’s jaw.

“What’s the problem?” Jaromír asked. “With the Riker?”

“Besides the fact I’ve never had to crack a security system before and Flower is a fucking sadist?”

Jaromír chuckled into Beau’s shoulder, the scrape of his stubble a pleasant scratch against Beau’s skin. “They aren’t hard, once you learn the trick of them.” He ran his fingers up Beau’s back and Beau shivered in response.

“Easy for you to say,” Beau sniffed. He still hadn’t been able to figure out if Jaromír had been a front man or a thief, but he had the feeling he’d done at least a little of everything before retirement.

“I started out like you,” Jaromír said. “Picking pockets. I was good at it. Good enough that I could buy a plane ticket out of Kladno. It was dangerous for thieves, there. Much easier to lose yourself once you reached America, and let the crowds do half the work for you.”

“The way Sid tells it, you and Mario Lemieux fleeced half the country.”

Jaromír’s smile grew distant; edging towards wistful. Nostalgic. “Mario was a good friend.” His accent crept up into his voice, strengthening in the grip of whatever memory had him. “You can lose your friends, if you’re not careful in this life. Our eyes grew too big for our stomachs, yes? And it’s hard to fix something once it’s been broken.”

“Did you? Fix it, I mean,” Beau asked.

“We’re working on it.” He dipped his hand lower, cupping Beau’s ass for a second before slapping it playfully. “Where are you on the Riker? I’ll see if I can help at all.”

Beau’s mouth curled into a wide smile. “I’m stuck on the asset tags. Flower wants me to know how to deactivate _and_ reactivate them. Talk about overkill, right?”

Jaromír bit his shoulder. “You know why I won at three-card Monte?”

“You cheated,” Beau said.

“No, _you_ cheated. I won because you made the mistake of assuming that your mark didn’t know exactly what you were doing.” He worried the skin between his teeth until Beau could feel a bruise begin to blossom. “The best way to avoid making that same mistake over and over again is overkill.” He bit down a final time, hard, and then sat up. “Come on. I’ve got a few Riker tags downstairs you can play around with. It helps if you’ve got something to look at.”

* * *

Flower really was a creature of habit. Routines, he’d say. And Sid had enough small ‘routines’ of his own that he couldn’t really claim the high ground. They did, however, make him easy to find. The night before the job, Sid headed to the bar closest to the museum to find the worst-lit table in the on-site bar.

Flower had a glass of ice water with two slices of lemon sitting mostly forgotten next to his elbow, and a single cigarette—Parliament Light, the only one from a pack that Sid could probably find in one of the garbage cans nearby—clenched too tightly between his fingers. “Hey,” he said. He slid down in his seat and pushed the opposite chair out for Sid to sit.

“Hey.”

He waited for Flower to finish his smoke; just a couple more long inhales before he tapped it out in the hotel-branded ashtray. As always, the silence that occupied the space between them was mellow and still, right up until it wasn’t.

“This is going to be my last job,” Flower said eventually. His fingers twitched towards the cigarette butt, but at the last second he grabbed his water instead and drained half of it in a single gulp.

“You’re retiring?” Sid asked with a frown.

“Vero’s pregnant.” Sid’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Three months. We haven’t even told her parents yet because she’s afraid they’ll start nagging her about working less. But I… ” Flower finished his water and fished one of the lemons out from between the slushy, half-melted ice cubes at the bottom. “I can’t be a parent once a month, Sid. Sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs and wearing a grey jumpsuit and trying to get out all of my fatherly wisdom in half an hour. I went through that with my old man, and I won’t do it to my kids.” He sucked on the lemon and began picking at the peel. “It’s why I’m training up the rookie. I want you to have someone you can rely on. He’s rough, but I think he could be one of the greats.” When his fingertips were stained with white and the acidic smell of citrus filled the air, he finally looked up to meet Sid’s eyes. “For fuck’s sake, say something.”

“I hope the poor kid looks like Vero,” Sid finally laughed.

Flower glared at him. Then, with a choked off half-laugh, he fished out the package of cigarettes from his pocket.

“What the fuck, Flower. Since when do you smoke more than one of those things?”

“I’m going to be a father,” Flower pointed out. “This is the last pack I’ll ever buy. I figured I might as well get my money’s worth.” He stuck two in his mouth and lit both with a green BIC, then passed one across the table to Sid.

“You going to do the stay-at-home dad thing like Max?” Sid asked. He hadn’t ever smoked all that much—he’d quit entirely after moving in with Mario and Nathalie—and it was almost alien to feel the paper between his fingers.

“Nah. Figured I’d give my day job an honest chance, for once,” Flower said.

Sid’s lips twitched in amusement. “I thought that was just a cover.”

“It’s a cover that comes with dental,” Flower pointed out. “And if this poor kid has Vero’s teeth, they’re going to be in braces from age five onward. I don’t think my savings are going to cover it.”

“You could always fence the Van Mieris,” Sid suggested.

Flower flipped him the bird. “I’m retiring, not dead. Besides,” he continued with a laugh, “How could I give up such a priceless reminder of our first job together? Especially when it looks so nice hanging in my living room.”

Sid laughed and waved over a passing waitress. Fuck routine. This sort of moment called for champagne.

* * *

“You know, I never liked Matisse,” Flower said. 

Sid sighed in his ear. “Are we having this discussion again?”

“Post-Impressionism in general, really. Doesn’t do anything for me.” Flower tapped his chin with his index finger. “The entire concept is so vague. Some asshole wanted to be cutting about works he didn’t understand and just labeled an entire new movement by younger artists with some bullshit phrase and it stuck around like a bad smell.”

“So, wait, is it the art you have a problem with or just the term ‘Post-Impressionism?’“ Knight asked. Her voice through their ear buds was slightly muffled.

“The term in general, Roger Fry in particular,” Flower replied.

“Oh my god, I am hanging upside down twenty feet in the air, could we focus on the task at hand?” Beau demanded.

What hadn’t seemed like such a high ceiling when they’d been surveying the museum was suddenly pretty intimidating. Beau cursed whoever had designed a building with windows so far off the ground. Hadn’t they decided against the skylights? Why was he repelling down from them? 

“Well, if Geno ever disables the security system,” Flower said off-handedly. 

“You want do my job?” Geno demanded. “Bastille system is bullshit. I been working on this fucking thing two hours. You get to fucking relax in safety harness. Deal with it.” 

“Well, now you’ve poked the Russian teddy bear,” Knight muttered. 

Flower snorted. “If he’d keep his hands off Sid’s ass and actually get to work, maybe we could finish this fucking heist sometime tonight.”

“You think this easy?”

“Oooh, yeah. So hard. I just scaled the side of a four story building with less than five pounds of climbing gear. I can see how sitting on your ass in front of a computer all day must be so fucking difficult.” 

“идти ебать твою мать,” Geno snapped. “Go fuck your mother.” There was the sound of a few keystrokes, and then, “There. Window sensors back on. Find your own fucking way out.”

Beau felt the blood drain from his face. “Guys—” 

“I will,” Flower said. “And then I’m going to take you for everything you own, you fucking Ruskie piece of shit.”

“Bring it on, you French-Canadian asshole. I let security guards know you there. You deal with them first.” 

Beau flailed, swaying in the air when the harness somehow managed to hold on. He tried to swing himself around to check out the door. Flower was on the other side of the museum dealing with the security cameras… Surely Geno wouldn’t call security on _him._ Geno liked him. Right?

“Umm,” he whispered. 

“Flower, Geno.” Beau had never heard anything as amazing as Wicks’ voice at that moment. “Stop fucking with the rookie.” 

“What?” Beau yelped.

Geno and Flower cracked up. 

“You guys are _such assholes_.” He wasn’t whining. He was expressing a perfectly normal amount of frustration with the childish dicks he worked with. 

“Yes, yes,” Geno laughed. “Cameras off, Flower?”

“In three, two… ” Across the room, the light died on the camera watching the room. “Done.”

“Okay, less than three minutes before security is on your ass, Flower,” Wicks said. “Knight, you good to go?”

“Ready and waiting,” Knight replied. 

“Sunshine?” 

“Floor sensors off,” Geno said. “Down you go, Sunshine.” 

Beau adjusted his descender so he could slip down towards the floor. All of Carter’s paintings in the same room; a room in which he suddenly found himself alone and unsupervised. 

He knew what paintings they were, but pulled out his phone all the same to scroll through the pictures, just in case. Picking the nearest one, he took a deep breath and pulled the brown cardboard tube off his back. All of Julie’s forgeries were rolled up inside. A few careful swipes with a scalpel and he’d be good to replace them. Just like he’d practiced on the Wal-Mart prints.

He just had to move fast.

* * *

“I thought you said three minutes,” Flower said with a yawn.

“Radio says they’re en route,” Wicks replied. “Just hang tight.” 

Flower rolled his head back and looked up at the sky. At least they could’ve put something interesting on the roof; some sort of enormous modern installation, maybe. That way he’d have something to do besides sit around being bored as shit as he waited for them to show up. It wasn’t like he could do much else until they got here.

“On your position in five seconds,” Wicks said. 

“Finally,” he sniffed. 

The door to the roof crashed open and three of the security guards poured out. Flower had to admit, he really preferred robbing places that didn’t equip their guards with guns. Guns were just so unfair. 

“Oh, no,” he said dryly as one of them grabbed a baton and a can of pepper spray from his belt. “You’ve caught me.”

Before any of them could reply, Knight swung around the corner of the structure housing the door and took one of them out with a punch to the jaw; he went down hard. The others turned on her, the one holding the baton swinging it wildly in surprise. She took the hit to her side and used her elbow to hammer him in the throat. Dodging the pepper spray, she sank down and hit the side of his knee. He followed her to the ground a second later.

She rolled to her feet and took out the third guard with a hard kick to his instep and punch to the temple. 

“Nice,” Flower said.

“The worst thing is how when they describe me to their buddies, I’m going to end up sounding like a MMA fighter,” Knight replied. 

“I thought you did MMA?”

“Yeah, but typically in those stories, I somehow always turn into a nine foot tall black guy.” She gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

“Yep.” 

They took off a good clip. There were typically between five and six guards on site during off-hours, depending on the roster as Sid had described it. With the cameras down, Knight needed to make sure that they were drawn away from where Beau was working swapping out the forgeries. The best way to do that?

They reached the room with the Matisse unmolested, and Knight pressed herself against the wall next to the doorway, half-concealed by a sculpture Flower could only generously describe as a Giacometti rip off.

“Geno?” he said. 

“Phone lines all down,” Geno replied. “The alarms going to go off when you grab it, but there won’t be any calls to the police. And cell phones are all jammed.”

Flower took a deep breath and grabbed the Matisse off the wall. Immediately the alarms began blaring. 

“I hope the guards don’t take so fucking long this time,” he said, half to himself. “I’d really like to get back to the hotel before Colbert.”

“You know, I feel like the Thomas Crown Affair lied to me,” Beau stated over the comms. 

“How is it going with the other paintings, Sunshine?” Wicks asked.

“I’m on number six.”

“Step it up. I don’t trust the guards not to call the police using their cellphones, and we didn’t hire a transporter for this job.”

“Hey, why not?” Flower asked. 

Wicks sniffed. “Because Subban was busy and I don’t trust anyone else to save your asses.”

“That’s so sweet.”

The remaining three guards flew into the room. Knight shook out her hands—loosening up her wrists—and dove in.

A couple minutes later, when all three of them were on the ground and Knight was tonguing a cut on her upper lip, Beau finally said, “Finished.”

“Okay, all of you out,” Wicks said. “Sid’s waiting in a car at the Walgreen’s two blocks over. Geno hasn’t registered any police activity, so let’s take the advantage while we can.” 

Flower nodded, hoisted the frame, and gestured for Knight to precede him through the doorway.

* * *

She didn’t get home until close to two, and when she dragged herself into the kitchen she found herself lingering in front of the fridge. Her lip throbbed in time with her heartbeat—the split no longer bleeding, at least, thanks to one of Sid’s ever-handy antiseptic pens—but she could already feel the outline of the bruise swelling against the inside of her lip. She blindly groped for a beer and pressed the cool metal up against her mouth once she had it in hand.

Heaven.

“Hey.” 

Hilary rolled her head and looked towards the kitchen door. Amanda was smiling, despite the late hour, a pair of boxers and an oversized sweatshirt making up for how goddamn cold she kept the place.

Hilary closed the fridge door, but kept the beer. “Hey.” She smiled with one half of her mouth—the half that didn’t sting. It still pulled the torn skin anyway. “Did you wait up?”

“Storage Wars marathon,” Amanda shrugged. She crossed the kitchen, her bare feet making less than a whisper on the ceramic tile. “Is that as painful as it looks?”

“I’ve had worse.” She transferred the beer from her lip to her right knuckles. 

“I know.” Amanda trailed her fingers along Hilary’s jaw, the barest light from the street creeping through the kitchen curtains to give them just enough light to see by. “You could consider going legit, you know. Work someplace where you don’t have to worry about whether you should wear a mouthguard.”

“What, like you?” Hilary laughed.

“You wouldn’t last one day in today’s cutthroat office environment,” Amanda said with a grin. She leaned up on her toes and pressed a light kiss to the underside of Hilary’s jaw. “Though imagining you kicking ass is pretty hot.” 

“Oh yeah?” Hilary tugged on the front of Amanda’s sweater. “How hot?” 

Amanda pulled back and tilted her head in the direction of the kitchen door. “I’ll show you.”

Hilary watched her make her way out of the kitchen, hesitating. Amanda glanced over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. 

“Sorry, babe. Do you know how hard it is to eat a girl out with a busted lip?”

Amanda smirked. “Who said anything about _you_ eating _me_ out?” She crooked her finger. 

Hilary set the beer can down on the counter and followed.

* * *

The way the light hit the paintings in the daylight was illuminating; the colours flowed differently, as thought they were meant to be seen with the sunshine streaming in through every available window. Beau caught himself staring at Chu’s replications, even though he’d seen—held—the originals and bundled them away in meager overnight lighting. 

He winced when he saw he’d accidentally pasted one of the replacement copies on slightly crooked. How had it gone unnoticed for over a week?

Then again, that was why they were here.

Jaromír was a warm presence at his side, not pressed close enough for their arms to touch, but the occasional light brush of his sweater drew up goosebumps with every breath. He was keenly aware of the security camera on his back, presumably back up and running, but no one had approached him yet, and they'd passed by a handful of roughed-up looking security guards as they'd moved through the galleries.

"What are your plans for when the job is done?" Jaromír asked, breaking the almost-reverent silence that had settled between them since they'd paid admission. They’d wandered from room to room, pausing only occasionally whenever Jaromír was struck by a memory or flight of fancy. Beau wasn’t sure whether or not he was surprised to find that Chu’s forgeries were the only ones in the museum. 

"Wicks and Flower said I did really well," Beau replied quietly. "I still have some training up to do, though. Wicks is hunting me down some prospects. Jobs with guys who can teach me more about the game." Beau glanced sideways. "Unless you wanted to take over from Flower? Take me to Paris and knock over the Louvre or something.”

"Sorry, Sunshine. I said I was out and I'm out," Jaromír murmured, though the corners of his mouth tipped down almost imperceptibly. "It may have taken me a million years to get here, but retirement agrees with me. I made more than enough money to pay my expenses and enjoy my vices. I don't need any more." The side of his mouth tipped up in a smirk. "Besides, who else would keep Wicks in her scotch if I got arrested and needed to give up the bar?"

"God forbid she give up her magical fucking scotch," Beau said through a smile. He glanced sideways. 

“Are you still on about that?”

“I’m still not convinced you didn’t con me out of twenty bucks because I can’t tell the difference between single and blended malt.” Beau looked straight forward, suddenly feeling awkward in his own skin as he mustered up the courage to ask, "Why are you asking? Do you want me to stay?"

"Asking someone to stay when they work in your profession is the closest you get to a proposal. I think it's a bit early for that, don't you?"

Beau blew out a breath. Whether it was relief or disappointment, he wasn’t quite sure. "Yeah."

"But when you're in Pittsburgh and you need a place to stay..."

"I could think of a few fringe benefits of crashing on your couch."

Jarmoir grabbed his hand, and squeezed tight for just a moment before releasing it. His grip was strong, his fingers rough, but both were familiar and exciting, tucked away into his sense memory. “In my bed.”

Beau felt his ears heat, but before he could reply, a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye drew his attention. Sid and the museum curator. Showtime.

“That’s weird,” Beau said as the mark passed behind him. “I always thought Pissarro was a fan of shorter brushstrokes.” 

The clacking of the curator’s heels paused just long enough that Beau knew he’d gotten her attention. He tugged on Jaromír’s hand, pulling him along through the gallery towards the exit. They’d planted the seed; if she didn’t get it right away, having Sid there would help ease her along. Even if she was giving him shit for having a crap thesis. If he kept going along with her revisions, he was going to end up with that master’s degree.

* * *

Carter arranged for the meeting in a parking garage. It was deserted after five o’clock most weekdays, and he’d found himself driving up and down the levels a number of times before he received the call from Wickenheiser, checking and double checking for anything that could resemble security or late hangers-on from the office buildings a block over.

Nothing. Not even an attendant; everything was automated. When she called to tell him that they had his money, he told her to meet him at the second level of the parkade and headed over there as late as he dared venture out into such a neighbourhood.

He had another call to make first, of course.

He hadn’t expected Wickenheiser to come alone. He couldn’t even pretend to be affronted when three others stepped out of the car after her—it made everything easier, after all.

They beat him there, and when he pulled his car into a stall nearby he took half a second to look them over. There was a sturdy leather holdall seated on the back of a silver sedan behind them—the only other car in the lot, as far as he could tell—and he could feel himself start to salivate a little.

He straightened his tie, checked his rear view mirror to make sure he didn’t appear overly nervous, and stepped out of the car.

“Mr. Carter,” Wickenheiser said in greeting. “These are my associates. Mr. Crosby, Mr. Malkin, and Miss Knight.”

He zeroed in on the holdall. “Is that my money?” he demanded.

“One hundred and seventy-five million dollars,” Wickenheiser replied calmly. “In a combination of cash and bearer bonds. And a couple of conflict diamonds offered up by one of the private buyers.”

He frowned, an ugly ball of anger settling itself between his ribs. “The collection was appraised at more than that.”

“When you sell through legitimate channels, your buyers tend to pay more,” Wickenheiser replied. The sound of another car entering the garage drew everyone’s attention for a moment and the criminals tensed.

“Have you already taken your cut?” Carter demanded. He unzipped the bag and glanced inside. His eyes were immediately drawn to the small gems seated on top of the stack of cash; god, those would look good set in a pinkie ring.

“No. I thought we’d give you the opportunity to count it.”

Carter smiled and zipped up the bag. “No need.” 

Wickenheiser frowned. The sound of screeching tires coming up the ramp pulled her attention away from Carter, and everyone turned to the entrance to the level. A black BMW careened up the ramp, aiming directly for them. Malkin, Knight and Wickenheiser all managed to jump out of the way, but Crosby took the full impact of the car. His body spun off the hood and hit the concrete hard. Before any of them could react, a thin man with aquiline features emerged from the driver’s side door, a gun in each hand.

He fired twice, hitting Knight once in the stomach and once in the chest, directly over her heart. She went down and he whipped around, turning the guns on Malkin and Wickenheiser.

Carter didn’t bother watching. He crossed the short distance and grabbed the holdall, enjoying the weight of it in his hand. God, it felt good. Settling. Even if he hadn’t gotten all he wanted, the insurance would more than compensate. And he was about to walk away with a decent amount of untraceable cash.

He nodded cordially to the hitman and headed back to his car. Predictably, despite the amount of money he’d paid for it, the satellite radio had no worthwhile listening on any of his favourite channels, and he contented himself instead with the smug thoughts of the money settled in the seat next to him.

* * *

His doorbell chimed at half past six.

Carter groaned and rolled over in bed, scrubbing his hand across his face. It was far too early; he wasn’t due at the office until nine. If it was the goddamn neighbours complaining about his landscaping again, he was going to run over their fucking cat next time the stupid thing decided to nap on his driveway.

He closed his eyes, willing whoever it was to piss off.

It chimed again, followed by an aggressive knock. Gritting his teeth, Carter levered himself out of bed and groped his bedside table for his discarded dressing gown. The edge was weighed down by the holdall with his money, and he spared it an indulgent smile. One hundred and seventy-five million dollars. Easy money, all things considered, and no bullshit taxes. He’d have to count it once he was finished with whatever fucking idiot decided to darken his doorstep at this ungodly hour of the morning.

He stumbled down the stairs, irritated that his percolator hadn’t even started up yet, and wrenched the door open with a hard frown.

“What?”

A couple in poorly-made, off-the-rack suits regarded him with identically unimpressed gazes.

“Is this a church thing? Fuck off.”

The woman pulled a leather wallet out of her pocket and offered him a look. Carter couldn’t stop his eyes from widening.

“Mr. Carter? I’m Agent LaRosse from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is my partner, Agent Fleury. We wondered if we mightn’t have a few minutes of your time this morning.”

Carter’s mind immediately went to the holdall upstairs. “I do mind,” he sniffed. “Clear off my property until I’ve had a chance to talk to my attorney.”

“We’re more than happy to let you call your legal counsel, Mr. Carter,” LaRosse said. “But we do have a warrant to search the premise, with or without your lawyer’s presence. So, if you wouldn’t mind… ”

Fleury shoved a stack of heavy folded paper into his hands, and they pushed by him. He didn’t read it over closely—it looked identical to the one he’d received when they’d raided his offices the previous fall—but he frowned when he noticed that it included any and all pieces of artwork.

“My gallery is empty,” he said, annoyed. It made sense for them to question him, now that the pieces from the museum had been reported missing, but surely they could have knocked at a more reasonable hour?

“All the same,” LaRosse said, “We’d appreciate it if you could show us where it is.”

Fleury, he noticed, was already facing the right direction. With a sniff of contempt, he led the two agents down the hallway.

“I resent what’s implied by you being here,” he said coldly. “It’s my property that’s gone missing. I’ve already spoken to my insurance company about getting a decent return.”

“I’m sure,” Fleury muttered. Carter’s steps faltered as he cast a withering look over his shoulder. The agent straightened. “What is the collection worth, Mr. Carter?”

“The policy is for a little over five hundred million,” he said. He came to a halt outside the room in which he typically kept his art. It wasn’t a gallery so much as a small side room; he had no interest in showing the collection off. His financial advisor had suggested art as a decent investment, once upon a time. Apparently he’d been right.

He entered his late mother’s birth year into the pin pad and pushed the door open.

Time seemed to freeze.

“Well,” LaRosse said over his shoulder. “Seems like your broker is going to be pretty happy that they won’t have to pay out.”

All ten paintings he’d loaned to the Carnegie—the ten Wickenheiser and her lot were supposed to have stolen—decorated the walls. In the places they’d hung before he’d sent them away. How had his home been compromised? He had a Riker system. The insurance company had overseen its installation and made it clear that if he wanted his place insured it had to be running 24/7. _What the fuck was going on?!_

He felt his jaw flap a few times and he spun to look at the Feds. “This isn’t… ” He sputtered. “They’re fakes. They have to be fakes. Like the ones in the Carnegie.”

“Now, that’s interesting,” Fleury said. “We hadn’t released any information to the public about forgeries being used in the Carnegie job, had we Vero? In fact, I’m pretty sure that information was law enforcement only.”

“That is interesting,” LaRosse agreed. She turned her attention back to Carter. “You mentioned calling your lawyer, Mr. Carter? I’d go ahead and make that call. It’s probably in your best interests to do so at this point.”

“This is bullshit,” Carter gasped. 

“Sure,” Fleury replied. He grinned at LaRosse. “Would you like to Mirandize Mr. Carter, or should I?”

“By all means,” LaRosse said. “You go right ahead.”

* * *

“Wait, what the fuck,” Beau said, half-choking on his beer, “You’re _actually_ an FBI agent? _I thought that was a cover_.”

“It was, for a while,” Flower told him. “But when I asked Vero to marry me, she made it clear that the answer was no unless I stopped faking it and began taking it seriously.”

“He did it, to my surprise,” Vero said. She looked longingly at Flower’s terribad scotch and resentfully sipped a glass of ginger ale instead. “Sid was our best man. He spent the entire wedding flirting with the agent who’d been assigned to his case.”

“Weber,” Sid mused, already more than a little tipsy on four glasses of the overly expensive champagne Jaromír had ordered them. “I would’ve climbed him like a tree.” Geno glared at him and Sid shrugged helplessly before listing into Geno’s side. “Well, I wouldn’t _now_.”

“Someone take the bottle away from Sid,” Knight laughed. “I think he’s had enough.”

Beau reached for the bottle—the dregs, really, Sid had chugged the rest of it like a champion lush—but Sid batted his hand away and downed the remainder of the bubbly in a single swallow, then spent the next thirty seconds trying to choke back a hiccup.

Geno sighed, grinned and looped an arm around Sid’s shoulders. He kissed the side of his head and then covertly pushed another bottle of champagne just out of Sid’s reach.

“You’re sure Carter fell for it?” Jaromír asked. He’d closed the bar for the night before pulling out the top shelf bubbly and shoving into the booth next to Beau, a delighted smile plastered across his face. “It’s going to be a lot less funny if he figures it out.”

“He’s already deposited the money into my account,” Martin said from the other side of the table. He seemed like a nice guy, for all that he killed people for a living. “And I got a message this morning that there was an extra twenty thousand in it for me if I denied all knowledge when and if I was ever contacted by the Feds. As far as he’s concerned, you’re all dead.”

“Man,” Sid muttered into Geno’s neck. “The flop is _hard_ when you’re old.”

“So, kiddo, how does it feel to be a professional art thief?” Knight asked.

“It’d feel better if we’d gotten away with some money,” Beau replied. “I still don’t get it. We stole this awesome collection of paintings, returned them to the rightful owner and gave him a bag of fake money.” He’d been cutting up stacks of newspaper in the shape of money for days—stacked and fronted with real bills. Not to mention the chips of glass that were supposed to pass as diamonds on casual inspection. “So what was the job, then? I mean, we framed the guy, but why bother?”

The bar door opened and everyone’s attention shot in the direction where, holy shit, Carter’s secretary was walking in. An elderly woman clung to her arm, a cane clenched tightly in her free hand as she navigated the uneven floor. Beau tensed. She would recognize him; she’d totally checked him out when he’d lifted Carter’s ledger. Did the security bars on the nearby window actually work? If he dove out them, how much would it hurt? 

“And here’s the Moneypenny,” Wicks said into her drink.

“She always did have the most amazing timing,” Knight said. She shoved at Geno until he stood to let her out of the booth. 

Beau blanched; he drew a line at beating up little old ladies. “Is Knight gonna—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish the question. Knight politely nodded to the elderly woman and grabbed the secretary’s hand, drawing her forward and into a perfect ballroom twirl. A peal of laughter burst forth and the blond slapped Knight’s arm. Undeterred, Knight dropped a hard kiss on her mouth and helped her straighten up. 

“What the fuck,” Beau finally said. 

“Sunshine, this is Amanda Kessel,” Wicks said. “She was working the inside with Carter. It’s how we knew he was looking to hire someone to get rid of us once the job was done.”

“Are you ever going to tell me the whole plan?” Beau demanded. 

“Less fun in that,” Geno replied on her behalf. 

The three women reached the booth a minute later, and Knight darted towards another table to grab a chair for the older woman. 

“Gran, this is Hayley Wickenheister. She helped organize everything,” Amanda said, her voice louder than Beau was expecting. “Wicks, this is my grandmother Martha.”

“So nice to meet you,” Wicks said, offering Martha her hand. “I was so sorry to hear about your husband’s passing. Amanda spoke very fondly of him.”

“Thank you,” Martha replied. Amanda made sure Martha was settled before pushing Knight back into her seat and dropping down into her lap. 

“Intrabank swindled Martha out of her house right before it took the buyout and sold off its accounts to collections agencies,” Flower finally said, taking pity on what Beau imagined to be an embarrassing expression of helplessness. “And when it comes to thieves, you just don’t want to fuck with their families.” 

Wicks pulled a cheque out of her pocket. “Speaking of which. This is for you, Mrs. Kessel.” Beau got the briefest glance of the long string of zeroes on the cheque as Wicks passed it down the table. 

Martha’s eyes widened. “Oh, my.” She pressed her hands to her mouth, the cheque clenched tightly in her fingers. “Oh.”

Amanda leaned in and kissed Martha’s cheek. “That should be more than enough to buy back the house. Or get you into a nice condo somewhere warm.” 

“Oh,” Martha repeated. She seemed to list into Amanda’s arms, wrapped protectively across her shoulders. “You’re such a dear.” She grabbed Amanda’s hand and squeezed. “He would be so proud of you. He always was.”

Amanda’s lips pursed and she looked down at the table top. “Thanks, Gran.” Beau looked away; he couldn’t deal with women crying. Not without thinking of Bailey.

“You know, I always did fancy living somewhere warm,” Martha said, her hand tight on Amanda’s, but her gaze confidently taking in the rest of the table. “And I hear Hawaii is very nice. I’ve never been.”

“Hils can help move your furniture,” Amanda offered, coughing to hide the shake in her voice. 

Knight obligingly flexed her bicep and, nope, Beau was not going to allow himself to feel jealous over her muscle definition. No way. It seemed to break the unmentioned tension at the table, and someone placed a glass of champagne in front of Martha a second later. She accepted it with a smile and turned to regard Wicks, ready to pull her into conversation about prospective locales for retirement. 

“So, working jobs that don’t actually get you any money… is that, like, good karma?” Beau asked. Attention at their end of the table turned back his way. “Are our scales balanced, somewhere? I mean, we wrote over the score to Martha, right?” 

“Well, if you feel that way, we keep your cut,” Geno said.

“My cut?” 

“Why do you think Amanda and Wicks arranged for her to lift the ledger?” Sid laughed. He leaned far enough across Geno that he was suddenly practically seated in Geno’s lap; Geno didn’t really seem to mind. “Five seconds with his account number and Geno had access to everything. Carter’s going to be lucky if he can afford anything better than a public defender.”

“Plus Dupuis paying us for the Matisse,” Flower grinned.

“Well, all that went to Martha, but there was enough in Carter's off-shore account for a tiny pay out for everyone,” Wicks finished.

“How much are we talking?” Beau demanded. Everyone grinned. “How much?”

“Wicks, put Sunshine out of his misery,” Jaromír laughed. 

Rolling her eyes, Wicks pulled an envelope heavy with the shape of money out from the booth beside her and passed it his way. Beau’s jaw flapped. It wasn’t dignified. But it was way, way more than he’d ever had in one place before. 

“I feel like _Clare de Lune_ should be playing right about now,” Knight said.

“Oh my god, are you _crying_?” Flower crowed in delight.

“No,” Beau sniffled. “Fuck you.” He was going to buy a car. He was going to buy _ten cars_. 

But first, he was getting his mother out of that shitty fucking apartment.

Fuck them all. He wasn’t crying.

Much.

“Guys, come on, he’s not a rookie anymore,” Wicks said. “No more hazing.”

“Here’s to Martha, rich assholes getting what they richly deserve, and my little klepto-baby all grown up,” Flower said, holding up his champagne glass. 

All around him, the tinging sound of touching glasses made for a pretty awesome closing soundtrack.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. All comments and kudos are happily and gratefully accepted.


End file.
